Mishelle Bradford-jones Life Is What You Make It
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.
