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