| So you want to be an artist
|
| And the only way to do it is to suffer
|
| And you want to be cool
|
| So you fake it 'til you can grow upper
|
| Ah, yes, you’ve got money in your pants
|
| Why don’t you come in from the street and dance?
|
| Or are the pleasures of the peasants
|
| Too lowly for your glance?
|
| Honey, d’you think you’ve got a right to sing the blues
|
| Because you live in the street and have no shoes?
|
| You choose, you lose, and it don’t give you
|
| The right to sing the blues
|
| You want to be cool
|
| You wear your shades across your face, you never smile
|
| Anybody seeing you
|
| Would think that you have paid your dues, and now you’re retired
|
| You’re all against the Viet Nam war, you make it plain
|
| You go to all the marches in an ecstasy of pain
|
| But you couldn’t spare a quarter for a blind man on the corner
|
| Standing there in the rain
|
| Honey, d’you think you’ve got a right to sing the blues
|
| Because you live in the street and have no shoes?
|
| You choose, you lose, and it don’t give you
|
| The right to sing the blues
|
| Yes, you want to be a Negro
|
| Try to prove that you have soul, but it’s all gone
|
| And you want to be a martyr
|
| So you moan about your problems just like old Uncle Tom
|
| Ah, honey, don’t you see
|
| Blues is more than just a fabricated mystery
|
| You’ve got to get out of it to get into it
|
| And then you can sing
|
| Honey, d’you think you’ve got a right to sing the blues
|
| Because you live in the street and have no shoes?
|
| You choose, you lose, and it don’t give you
|
| The right to sing the blues |