You save all your gig money for a one shot deal.
Make a hit single over the
You put aside enough for this fantastic opportunity.
Mo Grate records has agreed to take your money
And make you into a famous recording band.
You are so hot, so cool to be there, hittin, man.
You are down tight with it, stone picnic wild, dude.
Never-mind you rode all night from hay-Ville piled
In the back of a station wagon asleep sitting up,
High on what you think fame in the big cityís like.
Of course, you have no idea,
They havenít finished with you yet,
They havenít gotten to you yet
They havenít done their number on you yet.
They havenít turned you into little donkeys yet.
They havenít introduced you to the talent coordinator
Whose day job is undertaker.
They havenít sent you to the Chez Crotch motel
For a week in the Bubble Machine room.
They havenít told you how soft they want you to play.
You havenít had to blast for a biker convention
And entertain barefoot rockers on broken glass
Getting their knobs waxed in rhythm to your music,
Or watch the entire bar, and everything that isnít
Nailed down disappearing out the front door
And out into the street where the party doesnít stop
But keeps going for days and days while you
Try to keep from losing your ax, your gear, your car,
Your girlfriend, everything you own, and of course,
That insignificant, stupid little thing you call your life.
The recording deal comes with unwritten horrors
Things no one in their right mind would dream
Of doing let alone thinking it might come to pass.
Biblical scenes from Godís worst hair day, going on
Before your naked eyes, theft, lightening, murder. (?)
When did you ever think you might drown face down
In six inches of overflowing beer, in a lake of beer?
Why would you even pay for this?
I happen to know for a fact they've already
Erased half your record by mistake.