Big Happy Ending

The Godmothers cometh, out of the attics
Burdened by wisdom and mental rheumatics
Insisting you take their advice and their cake
One as dry as the other, both poisonous as kingsnakes
The cake is some safeways pink plaster disaster
The advice, that you trade in your white stratocaster
For death
But every word that you sing
Every note that you’re bending
Propels the whole thing towards the big happy ending
You do Top of the Pops, give thm money, they take it
And tll their friends down the shops how they helped you to make it
Certain fathers are sniffing and snorting their usual
Tedious tiring and tired dissaproval
They read your reviews with their red noses wrinkling
Lock up and hiccup and fake up some twinkling
In those bleary eyes to disguise weary truth
They envy their own childrens wonderful youth
They look out the window, annoyed that it’s sunny
And say pathetically, «But where’s the money?»
But every word that you sing
Every note that you’re bending
Propels the whole thing towards the big happy ending
You buy them new places with the fruits of your labours
And they sing your praises to the fucking neighbours