Now man is is born to trouble 
Sure as sparks to heaven fly
So said the man, sat all alone
In the corner of my eye
I said: "Why the long face, why so sad?
Things cannot be so bad!"
He said: "My aching bones tell of trouble on the road
And you can't make light of this load"
He said: "You can't make light of this load"
Now just don't get me started on work, trust or money
There's not enough hours in the day
In a land where nothing works except the answering machines
You have to watch what you say
All the high hopes of Thatcher's breed
Lie crushed beneath some 80's creed
Well Moaning Minnies we may be, just don't let us explode
"You can't make light of this load" they said 
"You can't make light of this load"
Seems that grumbling is a privilege, a pleasure and a pastime
For those approaching "middle rage"
"The burden fits the back" they say, and I know I've got mine
Thank heavens for the minimum wage!
"Things can only get better" they cried,
But over health and work and money they lied
Well their patron saint is Meldew and complaining is the mode
"You can't make light of this load" they said
"You can't make light of this load"
"Oh, don't the days seems lank and long
When all goes right and none goes wrong
So avoid the sad old so-and-so with his sorry episode
Who can't make light of his load, lads?
Who can't make light of his load?"