| 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-wives
|
| 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
|
| Sound man’s fallin' fast asleep
|
| The light man’s been up for day
|
| 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 |