| Each morning at nine, they trickle through the gates
|
| They go home early, they come in late
|
| Reeking of cheap liquor they stumble through the day
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| Never give a thought to honest work for honest pay
|
| I know it shouldn’t vex me
|
| I shouldn’t take it hard
|
| I know I should ignore their capering with a kingly disregard, but
|
| Look at all those idiots
|
| Ooh, look at all those boobs.
|
| An office full of morons
|
| A factory full of fools
|
| Is it any wonder that I’m singing, singing the blu-u-ues!
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| They make personal phone calls,
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| On company time.
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| They Xerox their buttocks,
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| And guess who pays the dime.
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| Their blatant thievery wounds me,
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| Their ingratitude astounds!
|
| I long to lure them to my home,
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| And then release the hounds!
|
| I shouldn’t grow unsettled
|
| When faced with such abuse.
|
| I shouldn’t let it plague me,
|
| I shouldn’t blow a fuse!
|
| But, look at all those idiots,
|
| ooh, look at all those boobs.
|
| An office full of morons,
|
| A factory fulll of fools.
|
| Is it any wonder that I’m singing,
|
| Singing the blu-u-ues.
|
| What happened? |
| Where are the instruments?
|
| I believe they call this a breakdown, sir.
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| I can’t have any breakdowns here!
|
| What if there was an inspector around?
|
| Play a guitar solo.
|
| Oh, I’m a little out of practice, sir.
|
| I said do it!!! |
| So do it!!! |
| do it!!! |
| do it!!!
|
| Yes sir.
|
| (Guitar Solo)
|
| Yes, excellent. |
| Well done.
|
| All right, it’s beginning to grate.
|
| That’ll be sufficient, Smithers.
|
| Excuse me?
|
| I said that’s enough!
|
| Oh! |
| Sorry sir. |
| Thought I had my mojo working.
|
| Humph.
|
| That man by the cooler,
|
| Drinking water, as if it’s free.
|
| Oh. |
| That’s Homer Simpson, sir.
|
| A drone from sector 7-G.
|
| Yes, well, call this Simpson to my office,
|
| And stay to watch the fun.
|
| If he’s 6 feet when he enters,
|
| He’ll be two feet when I’m done.
|
| It brings a ray of sunshine
|
| To my unhappy life,
|
| To make him kneel before me,
|
| And slowly twist the knife.
|
| Look at all those idiots
|
| Ohh, look at all those boobs.
|
| An office full of morons,
|
| A factory full of fools.
|
| Is it any wonder, that I’m singing,
|
| Singing the blu-u-ues.
|
| Take me home, sir.
|
| I’m trying.
|
| Surrounded by idiots,
|
| Outnumbered by boobs.
|
| An office full of morons,
|
| A planet full of fools.
|
| Is it any wonder, I’m singing,
|
| Maybe you should be singing, sir.
|
| Oh. |
| Singing the blu-u-ues.
|
| (Look at all those idiots.)
|
| Mr. Burns, you, you make Muddy Waters sound shallow and
|
| (An office full of morons.)
|
| cheerful, by comparison.
|
| Thank you, Smithers. |
| Meaningless but
|
| (Is it any wonder.)
|
| heartfelt compliment.
|
| I feel like I got a few things off my chest,
|
| and onto the chests of my inferiors.
|
| You do.
|
| (Look at all those idiots.)
|
| Why are they still playing?
|
| Um…
|
| Office full of morons.)
|
| They’re not still on salary, are they?
|
| We’re not validating their parking, sir. |