» Talking Pubsinger's Blues (or I'm Sorry I Won't Play Streets of London)
Image:

Lyrics

I must've been playing in this pub for a bit too long:


The beer taps are starting to drip in time to the songs.


And every night I wonder just what makes me stay;


Perhaps I enjoy it in a masochistic way.


 


'Cause it's the same old faces burping into their booze;


Well if the faces change the expressions never do;


It's that studied indifference they must’ve worked years to get.


Still, they can't be as bored as I am yet.


 


'Cause I've Donovan'd and Dylan'd till my tonsils got quite raw.


 I can't bear to hear the songs I loved any more.


And I've blown in the wind till the times were a'changing too,


And I've yellow is the coloured till my soul turned cocaine blue.


 


Chorus:


But I'm sorry I won't play ‘Streets of London’,


You can keep me singing from morning till sundown,


A boy's just got to make a stand sometime.


Don't ask me to play ‘Streets of London’,


For once in my life I'm going to put my foot down,


Tonight won't be the night that music died.


 


Nothing in this bar ever seems to move or change;


There's Gordon, the landlord, drunk again.


And he yells out, “Stevie, play a song we know!”


So like the coward I am I do.


 


Well it may seem strange, perhaps a bit conceited to you,


But I've got songs of my own I'd dearly love to do.


But my hands are tied in this God forsaken bar


And when your hands are tied it gets hard to play guitar.


 


'Cause if you've got no feeling for the music that you play,


You might as well give up and go away.


It's a sad, sad thing when music starts to die;


For the price of a pint you can watch me kill it, live.


 


Repeat Chorus


 


Yes I've Donovan'd and Dylan'd till my tonsils got quite raw.


I’ve done James Taylor till the fire didn't rain any more


And I've fooled on the hill with every Beatles tune I knew.


In a burst of angst I even once Sex Pistolled too.


 


But this time next year I'm going to be a big star;


I'll have a house in Hampstead with a room full of guitars


And I'll buy this pub, employ a singer too.


But I swear he'll sing the songs he wants to do.


(So long as it’s not that ******** ‘Streets of London’)!


 


Chorus:


I'm sorry I won't play ‘Streets of London’,


You can keep me singing from morning till sundown,


A boy's just got to make a stand sometime.


Don't ask me to play ‘Streets of London’,


For once in my life I'm going to put my foot down,


Tonight won't be the night that music died.