Someday Soon
Someday Soon
Someday
Someday Soon
Everything'll be okay
I talked to my accountant today
It made me very happy
When I heard him say
Someday Soon
Someday
Someday Soon
Three hundred thousand
Seven hundred and eighty four dollars
And fifty seven cents
Will be laid upon our group
It's merely just a fraction
Of the monetary action
That most likely has accrued
Since our lawyer went and sued
I'm sure the record company
Didn't really mean any harm
I'm sure that there was never
Really ever any need for alarm
The little guy in the white
Short sleeved shirt with the
Stinky cigar
At the Terra Haute pressing plant
Dumped an extra sixty thousand pressings
In the back of Shifty Louie's
New car
But what's a few un-accounted-for albums
Between friends
It never ends . . .
Pressing plants will always be leaky
The guy with the shirt will always be sneaky
Someday, Someday
Someday Soon
Someday, Someday
Someday Soon
Everything'll be okay
I talked to my accountant today
[]
The nice little men in the numbers department
Jiggle & juggle the totals of sales
On the singles and albums and posters and teasers
(I'm sure that these men are recruited from jails
Or from similar criminal training locations
Conveniently placed in the worst of our nation's
Geography
But can they be blamed for just doing their job?
When the guys in the legal department have said
There's hardly a chance that these rock & roll pukers
Will ever collect ten percent of their bread
Hey you, in the office
Hey you, on the phone
There's a wife and a kid
And a loan on my home
I sing for a living
I work on the road
And it gets me pissed off
When the figures I'm showed
Don't add up to a tenth
Of what really is owed
Take your adding machine
And go eat it
By the time I am through paying off all the guys
That I gotta employ to get paid for my work
(There's the lawyer, accountant, a manager too)
I might walk down the street and run into some jerk
He comes up and he says:
spoken:
Got any spare change?
Hey . . . aren't you?
Hey . . . you're . . .
Wow, man . . . I really dig your records!
Got any spare change?
You're rich . . . you can afford it!
It that ain't enough to just drive you berserk
It that ain't enough to just drive you to tears
It that ain't enough to just piss you right off
There's your contract which runs for another five years
Notes
- A rip on record company accounting procedures
- Written for the 200 Motels movie, but was ultimately not included.
