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