Unhappy Day

We are the littlemen;
We're not used to shocks;
We work in offices,
The schools and the docks; Unhappy day
When Sydney become our P.M.

We are the average man,
The man on the street;
No matter how we try,
We just can't make ends meet;
Unhappy day,
When Sydney became our P.M.

How we remember,
November, '54'
When Sydney promised us
Our pay would be more,
Unhappy etc . . .

But we soon realised,
His stories were tall,
'Cause now it seems to us that
We don't get paid at all;
Unhappy . . . etc . . .

We'd like to strike,
But we wouldn't have a show;
We haven't got the time
And we haven't got the dough,
Unhappy . . . etc . . .

Now Sydney's boss,
And its gone to his head;
So we've decided that
We might as well be dead;
Unhappy day,
When Sydney became our P.M.