| I’m a writer, I’m a poet
|
| Out of spiter and I know it
|
| I don’t need to hear your guitar
|
| I’ll write my review from the bar, should go far.
|
| I’m a critic with position
|
| Paralytic, you musician
|
| I’m weary of punk and new wave
|
| I invented them both anyway, sad to say.
|
| Up town, hanging around
|
| Street bar, town to town
|
| I’m a ligger with a trigger.
|
| Up, down, ‘round and ‘round
|
| Feet don’t touch the ground
|
| I’m ready, I’m a dedicated hound.
|
| I’m a wino midnight worker
|
| With a biro, I’m a lurker
|
| I’ll get you a deal in the chart
|
| Or stop you before you can start, that’s my art.
|
| Up town, hanging around
|
| Street bar, town to town
|
| I’m a ligger with a trigger.
|
| Up, down, ‘round and ‘round
|
| Feet don’t touch the ground
|
| I’m ready, I’m a dedicated hound.
|
| I’m a prier and a trier
|
| And I’m a liar on the wire
|
| Just leave me your dressing room key
|
| You did say that booze was for me, better be.
|
| Up town, hanging around
|
| Street bar, town to town
|
| I’m a ligger with a trigger.
|
| Up, down, ‘round and ‘round
|
| Feet don’t touch the ground
|
| I’m ready, I’m a dedicated hound. |