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Andy was a Catholic |
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The ethic ran through his bones |
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He lived alone with his mother |
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Collecting gossip and toys |
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Every Sunday when he went to Church |
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He'd kneel in his pew and he'd say |
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It's work all that matters is work |
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He was a lot of things |
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What I remember the most he'd say |
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I've got to bring home the bacon |
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Someone's got to bring home the roast |
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He'd get to the factory early |
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If you'd ask him |
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He'd have told you straight out |
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It's work |
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No matter what I did it never seemed enough |
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He said I was lazy, I said I was young |
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He said, "How many songs did you write" |
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I'd written zero, I'd lied and said, "Ten" |
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You won't be young forever |
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You should have written fifteen |
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It's work |
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You ought to make things big |
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People like it that way |
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And the songs with the dirty words |
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Make sure your record them that way |
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Andy liked to stir up trouble |
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He was funny that way |
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He said, "It's just work" |
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Andy sat down to talk one day |
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He said, "Decide what you want |
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Do you want to expand your parameters |
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Or play museums like some dilettante" |
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I fired him on the spot, he got red and he called me a rat |
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It was the worst word that he could think of |
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And I've never seen him like that, it's work |
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I thought he said it's just work |
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Andy said a lot of things |
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I stored them all away in my head |
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Sometimes when I can't decide what I should do |
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I think what would Andy have said |
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He'd probably say, "You think too much |
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That's 'cause there's work that you don't want to do" |
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It's work, the most important thing is work |
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It's work, the most important thing is work |
