Оригинален текст
Friday's for funerals, Saturday's for brides
Guess I'll take Sunday as mine
'Cause on weekends I perform miracles
I turn paycheques into wine
One working weeks' wage at a time
Well, maybe it's time for getting on home
The sun is hanging low in the sky
And the wine in my head turns to lewd thoughts
And it disorganized my mind
But I seem to be that way inclined
All these girls, they tempt me, Lord
With their long and flowin' hair
But I only ask for the one I've lost
Whose perfume still fills the air
Well, it's more than I can bear
And so I go hungry, leavin' alone
I make it back home to my bed
And the merciful sleep of a drunken man
Will drown all the things that she said
From goin' round and round in my head
And in the morning, the shadows fall longer
I sink back deep in my chair
And I fall into a reverie
Imagining that she's there
Well, it's more than I can bear
Well, if Friday's for funerals and Saturday's for brides
I guess I'll take Sunday as mine
On weekends I perform miracles
Turning paycheques into wine
Turning memories of her into wine