[footfootfoot]

For all you cellarites from Desmond Decker

Get up in the morning, slaving for bread, sir,
so that every mouth can be fed.
Poor me, the Cellarite. Aah.

Get up in the morning, slaving for bread, sir,
So that every mouth can be fed.
Poor me, the Cellarite. Aah.

My wife and my kids, they are packed up and leave me.
Darling, she said, I was yours to be seen.
Poor me, the Cellarite. Aah.

Shirt them a-tear up, trousers are gone.
I don't want to end up like Bonnie and Clyde.
Poor me, the Cellarite. Aah.

After a storm there must be a calm.
They catch me in the farm. You sound the alarm.
Poor me, the Cellarite. Aah.

Poor me, the Cellarite.
I wonder who I'm working for.
Poor me, Cellarite,
I look a-down and out, sir.