Make a lot of money singing about it.
And don’t be afraid to cash in.
At the end of the gig is a paycheque bright.
And the sweet voice of your bank manager cooing in your ear.
Walk on through the rain, walk up to the teller
And hand over the bag of money.
Walk On, Walk on, with hope in your heart
That the ATO doesn’t get wind of it before it can be sent to the Cayman Islands.
I can’t understand all the fuss they make about songwriters. All you need to do to pump out a hit is just tell the unvarnished truth. Really, you could set a spreadsheet to music and it would make money.
I mean, if you can’t sell it in Tin Pan Alley, sell it to a football club. They’ll buy anything.
