[Intro - untrained but memorable male voice, close mic, narrow range, almost spoken] Saturday. Same light. Saturday. Same room. [Verse 1 - clipped talk-sung, stiff timing, slightly behind the beat, plain tone] Train goes over. Empty glass rings once. Window open. Water. Iron. Frying fat. Road is dry. Wall still dark at the bottom. Coat on hook. Cuffs still cold. Shoes by door. One points out. Milk is gone. Still all right. [Verse 2 - ordinary voice, dry British phrasing, narrow pitch range, no drama] Stair paint, a thumb-width gone. Neighbour’s radio under the door. “Good morning” through the wall. Already noon. Brick in sunlight. Far too bright. On days like this fix my collar. A bus comes by. Right on time. Top deck glass: a hand mark. I don’t get on. The hand mark goes. [Chorus - simple melodic hook, under-sung, slightly flat line endings, memorable but ungainly] I don’t hate Saturday. I don’t hate it. But everyone does Saturday well. I only bought milk and came back. Well done. Same room. Same light. [Verse 3 - more rhythmic, still clumsy, late entrances, bass more fluent than the voice] Three o’clock. Light hit the table edge. Took down the coat. Sleeve still cold. Got on a bus. Five minutes was enough to count. Red brick slid past the glass. Before I looked: another wall. Under the arches, only dirt on the window. Finger marks. Old rain lines. Someone rang the bell. Still too early to get off. Till the next stop, held the coppers. [Verse 4 - half-sung, almost interlude, quieter voice, bass carries movement] Canal smell, like after rain. It hadn’t rained. Under the bridge, it got stronger. Narrowboat cover: small dark pool. Boat tied up. Only water moved a bit. [Verse 5 - dry social observation, awkward timing, slight bitter edge, never theatrical] Newsagent’s floor: wet footprints. A man picked up a paper. Read the headline. Put it back. Seemed enough. Through the window: betting shop next door. Only the paper looked new. Carton corner folded in the bag. Man behind the counter said something. I answered. It wasn’t wrong. [Chorus - same simple hook, still imperfect, no lift into anthem, bass carries the feeling] I don’t hate Saturday. I don’t hate it. But everyone does Saturday well. I only bought milk and came back. Well done. Same room. Same light. [Bridge - exposed untrained voice, close and dry, awkward but focused] Back in the room. Guitar by the wall. One chord. Wrong. Another. Stopped. Half a phrase. Wrote it down before it went. Mug ring over the paper edge. Train went over. Empty glass rang once more. [Final Chorus - most melodic section, still stiff and under-sung, no catharsis] I don’t hate Saturday. I don’t hate it. But everyone does Saturday well. I bought the milk. I made it back. That counts. Coat on hook. Shoes by door. Only the light moved on the floor. [Outro - tired ordinary voice, nearly spoken again, fades into room tone] Light on brick. Angle changed. Milk in fridge. Coat on hook. Shoes by door. One points out. Empty glass. Saturday. Same room. Same light. Different angle.
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