Look, if I had predicted all of this
Dates, causes and excuses
The actual results
Do you reckon that for this tuppence
This wanker's glory
I would have written songs?
Fine, I admit it, I was wrong
I'll take my cross to bear, and be it so
I ask for time, I'm of my breed
However large that is, the first-generation student
My father, in the end, was right
When he said a pension is really important
My mother wasn't wrong either
To say a graduate counts more than a singer
Young and naive, I lost my head
Whether it was the books, or my provincialism
And a dick up my arse, and accusations of being a sell-out
Whispers that I'm a wishy-washy centrist are all that I've got left
You critcs, oh you austere beings
You severe militants, I ask your graces pardon
But I never said that songs make revolutions
They might make poetry
I sing when I can, as I can
When I feel like it, never mind the cheers or boos
Selling or not doesn't count among my risks
You don't buy my discs, and you spit on me.
What do you reckon I get out of
Taking on the hassle
Of standing up there singing?
I'm happier getting drunk
Or maybe having a wank
Or at most, fucking.
If I'm in a dark mood, then I write
Rummaging around inside our miseries
Usually I've got more serious things to do
Building on the rubble, or keeping myself alive
I, the everyman, the nobody, the dickhead, the drunk
The poet, the buffoon, the anarchist, the fascist
The rich, the poor, the radical
The different, the same-old, the black, the Jew, the Communist!
I, the faggot, I, Mr I-sing-to-pull-the-ladies
I the phony, the real thing, the genius, the moron
I, alone here at four in the morning
Angst and a little wine
and in the mood for swearing
Why do you reckon I should bother
To stand and listen
To whoever's got beef?
Of course the doctor tells me "you're depressed"
Not even on the bog
Do I get a moment to myself
And I who always said this was a game
Knowing or not how to use a certain metre
Well, comrades, the joke's getting tired and bleak
Just buy my arse, I'm selling it for cheap.
Fellow songwriters, you ranks of the chosen
Who sell out every night
For a few million
You who can, - you're doing great
With your pockets full
And not just your balls
What can I tell you? Get out there and do it,
There'll always be, as well you know
A failed musician, a puritan, a theorist
A Bertoncelli or a priest, around to spout bullshit
But if I had predicted all of this
Dates, causes and excuses
Perhaps I'd do the same
I like writing songs and drinking wine
I like causing trouble
And besides I'm a born sucker.
And so I'll get by, and I'll not cast off
The usual clothes I wear
So many things that I've still got to tell
For those who want to listen
And bugger all the rest of it.