| The decorations are drab
|
| It’s dirty and it smells
|
| You don’t have to be mad to work here
|
| But it helps
|
| The temptation to fail
|
| Would make a Boots bunny cry
|
| You need the patience of a snail
|
| Just to get by
|
| Today the police came
|
| And paid a visit to the slums
|
| Exchanging rock 'n' roll concert tickets
|
| For guns
|
| If you supply the wool
|
| They can make you a star
|
| But if the ashtrays are full
|
| You might have to sell the car
|
| When you don’t wanna be
|
| The life and soul of the party anymore
|
| And the birthday cake
|
| Was baked to make you cry
|
| When you don’t wanna dance to the rock 'n' roll
|
| That your radio’s for
|
| You wanna call it a day
|
| Crawl away and die
|
| So do I
|
| There’s a place you sometimes go
|
| When you can’t face your own shadow
|
| They’ve got an old jukebox
|
| Supposed to keep you entertained
|
| But all the records suck
|
| They wind you up
|
| They drive you insane
|
| This funeral director geezer
|
| Comes not to bury Caesar
|
| I only come to praise you
|
| Because I feel the same too
|
| Maybe we should hit the coast hard
|
| To the scene of a saucy postcard
|
| Or to Paris for a wilting flower
|
| To get an eyeful of the tower
|
| Because there’s a sadness in those eyes
|
| As the life and soul of the party
|
| Dies
|
| No you don’t wanna be
|
| The life and soul of the party anymore
|
| And the birthday cake was baked to make you cry
|
| No you don’t wanna dance to the rock 'n' roll
|
| That your radio’s for
|
| You wanna call it a day
|
| Crawl away and die
|
| So do I |