[Verse 1] Thursday rolled in with a clipboard grin, Eight-inch runner beans came clattering in. We’d ordered eight-foot beams to brace the new bay— Now the foreman’s planting lunch for a rainy day. The plumber unpacked toilets, gave one a spin: “Those are bidets, lads. Who’s sitting in?” The foreman lost his glasses—“They’ve vanished again!” They’re perched on his hard hat. We don’t tell him when. [Chorus] Oh, Thursday, Thursday, what a glorious mess, Every box has arrived in the wrong sort of dress. We’ll laugh till the site hut shakes and the tea goes cold— If the label says “building,” check twice before it’s unloaded! [Verse 2] The kitchen fitters waited for units in white, A Royal Mail postie came cycling in sight. He handed them a parcel, signed with a flourish; Inside: dolls’ house miniatures, complete with a porridge. The roofer ordered grey slate, a hundred felt rolls; Green slate and loo rolls came tumbling in piles. Then crafters’ felt—“That’ll keep out the rain!” He made a tiny roof for the foreman’s teacup again. [Chorus] Oh, Thursday, Thursday, what a glorious mess, Every box has arrived in the wrong sort of dress. We’ll laugh till the site hut shakes and the tea goes cold— If the label says “building,” check twice before it’s unloaded! [Verse 3] The painter called for classic magnolia, neat; Crimson magenta came marching down the street. “It matches my temper,” he said through his teeth, Then painted one ladder and stormed underneath. The sparky ordered junction boxes, plain and small; A grey traffic junction arrived, near as wide as the hall. He stood by the hut with his order sheet spread: “Which wire goes to Cardiff?” somebody said. [Bridge] (Workmate shouts from the corridor) “Oi, don’t use all the hot water, mate!” (Lead, over the splashing) I’m only rinsing Thursday off—give us a minute! (Workmates) We’ve got a whole site full of wrong things in it! [Verse 4] The beans got a bucket, the bidet got a sign, The mini-kitchen’s ready for a mouse to dine. The roofer’s got loo rolls stacked up to the sky, And the painter says magenta’s growing on him—“Aye!” The foreman found his glasses, still up on the brim; He checked the delivery list, then peered over them. “Tomorrow we’ll sort it,” he said with a grin— We all heard the postie come back with another tin. [Final Extended Chorus] Oh, Thursday, Thursday, you’ve done it again, Wrong boxes, wrong colours, wrong goods for the men! We’ll laugh till the site hut shakes and the tea goes cold— If the label says “building,” check twice before it’s unloaded! Eight-inch beans and bidets, green slate and tiny chairs, Traffic junction boxes where the junction box goes nowhere! Crimson walls, craft felt, and the foreman’s hat— We’ll be back Friday morning to laugh about that! [Outro: outside the shower room, barbershop quartet] The boss must have been drunk after his stag do, When he ordered the materials online. When he ordered the materials online. And we’re all back ’ere Friday, to start Thursday all again, Let’s hope the orders arrive all properly this time! (Quartet tag, close harmony) All properly this time… (whistled tune; shower water fades)
