The Home Stretch

If the day off doesn't get you

Then the bad reviewer does.

At least you've been a has-been

And not just a never-was

And you know it's not a mountain

But no mole hill is this big.

And you promise to quit drinking

As you light another cig.

Once again you're in the home stretch

But you're not sure where you live.

You recall a small apartment

And a government you give

Large amounts of money to

So you're allowed to stay

And rest until you're well enough

To leave again and play.

You are making human contact

With the postcards that you send

To the children of your ex-wifes

And a woman, your girlfriend.

Who is living in a city

Thousands of miles away

That is full of young male models,

Not all of whom are gay.

In the meanwhile you've stopped writing songs,

There's nothing left to say.

You'd like to get your old job back

And mow lawns again one day.

But you keep lifting up your left leg

Sticking out your tongue.

There's nothing else that you can do

And you're too old to die young!

Too many beds, too many towns,

Not much to declare zones.

London broils and tuna melts on dirty microphones.

While the sound man's falling fast asleep,

The light man's been up for days,

The club owner and arithmetic

Have long since parted ways.

As for the lovely audience,

Tonight they're rather cold.

But they're prepared to listen,

All they have to be is told.

If the day off doesn't get you

Then the bad reviewer does.

At least you've been a has-been

And not just a never-was.