| Showtime | 
| Hang a guitar on my shoulder | 
| Check the vacant drooling faces round the room | 
| Another heartbreak battle | 
| And I’m only getting older | 
| Jesus help me when I say I’ll give it all up pretty soon | 
| Daytime | 
| Time to fight the morning’s headache | 
| Gulp an aspirin bang together one more song | 
| Inspiration cauterised | 
| By years of useeless heartache | 
| Every shallow nights reaction sounding twisted up and wrong | 
| These last years | 
| Years gone down to the showtime | 
| Showtime | 
| Try to catch the spark | 
| That got me hooked so many years ago and died | 
| Second-rate musicians | 
| Feeding infantile illusions | 
| Reading music magazines to keep the habit satisfied | 
| Pitching | 
| To some demographic average | 
| What the hell he’s staying home for, I don’t see him here tonight | 
| Thirteen years and over | 
| Tuned to radio between the hours | 
| Of six and seven-thirty, AM programmer’s delight | 
| These last years | 
| Years gone down to the showtime | 
| I never knew it could be | 
| So misleading | 
| Waiting for the final song to end | 
| In this dirty nightclub | 
| All the souls are bleeding | 
| Reaching for the big decision | 
| Disco floor or television | 
| Time and time again | 
| You hear the so-called friends | 
| The smug de-facto critics in their movie backdrop cities | 
| Sneering sitdown and listen | 
| Life’s a lonely escalator | 
| It’s a fool who doesn’t know he has to leap off at the end | 
| Well they were never at the guesthouse | 
| With the ghost of Jimmy Rodgers | 
| Watching Townsville sugar sunsets back in 1959 | 
| And they’ll all be gone when the end is come | 
| And I’m kneeling in the backroom | 
| Crying Lord I’m just a trouper, let me play it one more time | 
| These last years | 
| Years gone down to the showtime |