Well it occured to me, this very morning,
That every day lays out like Sunday for me.
I sit around and watch the washing,
Dance around with Sally,
I bust my automatic chance, a nine to five,
I don't think I'd survive.
I raced inside to find the meaning in the dictionary,
I'm the cat and my guitar, so all so quite contrary.
That's enough, I'm Bohemian,
I'm not what I might seem,
And I'm no baker or no butcher, candlemaker.
Each day is like a dream boat,
Go gently down the stream,
Oh life is what you make it, it's true.
Each day is like a dream boat,
Go gently down the stream,
Oh life is what you make it, it's true.
Thinking what it might mean if I make a start,
As I walk towards the bus stop, I wish I had a car.
Inside this view, the wheels go round,
The people up and down,
Feeling like a lady leisure, maybe it's my lucky shirt.
If my arms fail and my pieces are no more,
And life decides to lead me to another closing door.
I won't be needing horses or the suitable kings men,
I can put me all back together again.
::chorus::
Eight days around the garden,
Waiting for the thoughts to grow,
Skipping stones, in rows and circles,
Inventing brand new ways to go.
And later on, I battle rules and shopping centres,
The cupboard's bare, the dog forgot to mention.
My family's coming round to eat and laugh and play,
And share with me something I call another lazy Sunday.
::chorus::
Make it, it's true, oh, life is what you make it,
Gently down stream, go gently down,
Go gently down stream, go gently down.
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