It’s 4 o’clock on a Friday,
The will to live gettin’ thin.
There’s a wall clock ticking patiently,
Muffled only by chatter and din.

I think, “God, please take me away from here,
I don’t care at all where I go.
But I’m bored and oh, Lord, I’d truly be floored,
I’m sure, if I make it till five.”

La la la, di da da
La la, di da da da dum

Make it to five, you’re the cubicle man,
Make it to five tonight.
Well, you’re so very close to quitting time,
And soon you’ll be drinkin’ a pint.

Now idle chattering can kill some time,
but despair comes quickly to me.
For I’m fraught with a thought that I’m yearning for naught,
that I’ll never be allowed to be free.
I think, “Will, I believe this is killing me,”
As my hair runs wild and amok.
“Hell, I bet I could win the lottery,
If I could make picks worth a fuck!”

Oh, la la la, di da da
La la, di da da da dum

Now tall is the pint I’m imagining,
more like a quart or a gallon.
And I’m dreamin’ of whiskey, sometimes a bit risky;
I’ll be lucky to leave with my life.

And the ticking is dreadfully maddening
As my frustration pulses to a head.
Yes, I’m drier than the Mormon tabernacle,
And I’d rather be drinkin’ alone.

Make it to five, you’re the cubicle man,
Make it to five tonight.
Well, you’re so very close to quitting time,
And soon you’ll be drinkin’ a pint.

We’re a deeply sad group who sit at our desks,
and the beleaguered few laugh in denial.
Cause we know that it’s we who’ve made it past 3,
By absently skimming a file.
And my stomach rumbles like a Camaro,
And my dallying turns into cries.
As I drool at my desk, my life Kafkaesque,
And think, “Man, you could be drinkin’ a beer.”

Oh, la la la, di da da
La la, di da da da dum

Make it to five, you’re the cubicle man,
Make it to five tonight.
Well, you’re so very close to quitting time,
And soon you’ll be drinkin’ a pint.