I can write one hell of a sad song
but I can’t get paid to sing it.
It’s gotta be diquised like a suicide
and have a beat that’s really swingin’.
They say, Don’t say so much and
could you pick it up a bit.
In not so many words
and the few they choose are shit.
I’m not entertained by them.
Why should they be entertained by me?
money money money money money
I could have been a thief of jewels.
I could of had a million names.
Instead I push just one in stone
up in dreams and down in days.
I could have born a rich man’s son.
I could have been a prince.
Instead I was born to be
just these songs I’ve written since.
And I’ve grown scared of the music.
It’s comin after me for
MONEY
I got these fantasies of luxuries
swimming through me like a strange disease.
The cure is torture sure as
I’d get down on my knees
for just one chance to sing one song
to someone who is someone, somewhere,
some time, soon, before what I’ve done comes undone.
There’s a craving in my heart and
there’s a craving in my belly.
One of ’em really needs
the money.
money money money money money