|
If the day off doesn't get you |
|
Then the bad reviewer does. |
|
At least you've been a has-been |
|
And not just a never-was |
|
And you know it's not a mountain |
|
But no mole hill is this big. |
|
And you promise to quit drinking |
|
As you light another cig. |
|
Once again you're in the home stretch |
|
But you're not sure where you live. |
|
You recall a small apartment |
|
And a government you give |
|
Large amounts of money to |
|
So you're allowed to stay |
|
And rest until you're well enough |
|
To leave again and play. |
|
You are making human contact |
|
With the postcards that you send |
|
To the children of your ex-wifes |
|
And a woman, your girlfriend. |
|
Who is living in a city |
|
Thousands of miles away |
|
That is full of young male models, |
|
Not all of whom are gay. |
|
In the meanwhile you've stopped writing songs, |
|
There's nothing left to say. |
|
You'd like to get your old job back |
|
and mow lawns again one day. |
|
But you keep lifting up your left leg |
|
Sticking out your tongue. |
|
There's nothing else that you can do |
|
And you're too old to die young! |
|
Too many beds, too many towns, |
|
Not much to declare zones. |
|
London broils and Tuna Melts on dirty microphones. |
|
While the sound man's falling fast asleep, |
|
The light man's been up for days, |
|
The club owner and arithmetic |
|
Have long since parted ways. |
|
As for the lovely audience, |
|
Tonight they're rather cold. |
|
But they're prepared to listen, |
|
All they have to be is told. |
|
If the day off doesn't get you |
|
Then the bad reviewer does. |
|
At least you've been a has-been |
|
And not just a never-was. |
