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Tour Song
(or: Tour-a-Lour-a-Lour-a-Lie-Ay)
Out on the road
No fixed abode
Doing a load
Of work for some rotten cheapskate
Stuck on a bus
With twenty plus
Duplicitous
And talentless people I hate
Playing dingy clubs
And minging pubs
To a rowdy crowd of stinking drinking Beelzebubs
How will I cope?
Well, pass the dope
Now I will hang me with this old rope
I'm on tour and it's not funny
And I haven't any money
I can't stand the monotony
Want to jump off a balcony
Feeling miserable and hazy
Slightly murderous and crazy
Like some movie by Scorsese
But with more
Blood and swearing
Look at the promoter
In his big expensive motor
Swanning round the fancy parties
In his blazer and his boater
Hey Mr Big Shot
With your contracts and your whatnot
Gonna flush your smarmy fizzog
Down the bottom of the toilot
When I get back
I'll be on the attack
I will only wear black
Like some ninja tarmac
Gonna hunt down that slack
Megalomaniac
Buy his business and give him the sack
I'm on tour and it's horrendous
Could be home watching Eastenders
'stead of contemplating slaughter
In some stinking dull backwater
In a dive where they will let in
Any drunken stupid cretin
Who won't understand a single word I sing
When I sing
About harlequins
Ballerinas, robots and other esoteric things
Words by Waen Shepherd 2004
Copyright Control
Written for BBC Radio 2's The Day the Music Died
Original transmission 02.09.04
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