Every Saturday we work in the yard, pick up the dog doo, hope that it's hard.
I'm making records, my fans they can't wait. They write me letters, tell me I'm great.
Everybody else shares the same cloudy sky.
We keep grinning 'til the weekend comes, just a pinch between your cheek and gum, all night long.
The song tells me what to play.
Digital technology has eaten classic radio as we know it. Independent stations with disc jockeys who chose their own music have all gone; it's these huge parent companies that own a hundred stations and then decide what we should hear.