1.Paycheques
Lyricist：Charles Owen, Murray Patterson, Tex Perkins, Don Walker
Friday's for funerals, Saturday's for brides
Guess I'll take Sunday as mine
'Cause on weekends I perform miracles
I turn paycheques into wine
One working weeks' wage at a time
Well, maybe it's time for getting on home
The sun is hanging low in the sky
And the wine in my head turns to lewd thoughts
And it disorganized my mind
But I seem to be that way inclined
All these girls, they tempt me, Lord
With their long and flowin' hair
But I only ask for the one I've lost
Whose perfume still fills the air
Well, it's more than I can bear
And so I go hungry, leavin' alone
I make it back home to my bed
And the merciful sleep of a drunken man
Will drown all the things that she said
From goin' round and round in my head
And in the morning, the shadows fall longer
I sink back deep in my chair
And I fall into a reverie
Imagining that she's there
Well, it's more than I can bear
Well, if Friday's for funerals and Saturday's for brides
I guess I'll take Sunday as mine
On weekends I perform miracles
Turning paycheques into wine
Turning memories of her into wine
2.The Singer Of The Song
Pay no heed to him, my dear
He knows not right from wrong
He ain't a good and righteous man
He's the singer of the song
Though he'll philosophize and prophesize
And weave his poetry
Take a look into his eyes
And his empty vanity
But the singer of the song cares little
For your troubled lives
He does his set and gets his pay
And goes home to his wife
He's not the one you thought he was
His legend is a lie
He used to be famous
But you can't remember why
Though he sings of things familiar
Things you feel and know
He ain't never been through it
It's just a part of the show
But the singer of the song feels nothing
As you throw your eggs and knives
Does his gig and gets his pay
And gets on with his life
He delivers all his words just like
They're whispered just to you
But every secret he reveals
You already knew
He'll sell you the illusion
That he's pouring out his soul
But when opens up his mouth
It's just one more empty hole
But the singer of the song cares little
For your ordinary lives
He does his gig and gets his pay
And goes home with your wife
The posters say that on his day
He's the greatest show on earth
If you're entertained by tragedy
You'll get your money's worth
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