And you ask forgiveness.
You've asked God forgiveness for all the terrible things you've done.
But have you ever asked her?
And know the little woman is sitting there
at home wondering where all the hell you are.
She knows you're in a rock and roll band.
And you're out there doing terrible things in the name of
freedom and creativity.
But what does she have?
A lonely room.
A pillow to cry on.
Three screaming children who give her no peace.
A train whistle far away.
She can hear it from the window.
While you're out here with cows and bulls
and musicians and technicians having a great time.
Do you really give a damn about her?
Prove it.
Call her now.
Save your marriage.
Save
your life.
Save your future.
It hasn't arrived yet, but save it anyway.
This is your last
chance
to make up for all the sins you've committed.
Living this life of freedom.
Dying
on a mythological cross so all the fans can
have someone to dream about on their sad little
pillows at night.
This is your last chance.
Surrender.
Give in to the life that hasn't
arrived yet.
You think you're doing wonderful things for people out here?
Well, I'm here
to tell you,
you ain't *.
I've seen you from the pulpit from which I stand.
I can see
all of your sad little faces looking like the front row
at a Donny Osmond concert.
I
can see your hearts palpitating.
I can see your tiny little nubile breasts heaving in
time to this animalistic beat.
Give up now while you have a chance.
Call your wives.
Call
your children.
They never see you.
They don't know who you are.
They've forgotten what you
look like.
True, some of them don't really give a *.
They just want your money.
Send
money now.
Don't apologize to the wife.
If this is your lot in life,
adapt it.
Learn how
to beg, but be not sincere.
You are on the road now.
They are at home,
wondering where
you are.
They hear a train coming from very far away.
The train sounds a little better
than that.
Your wives, your girlfriends,
your children,
they're not born yet.
We call them
as yet unborn.
You're out here on the road wondering
how to conjugate the word loneliness.
All you really want to do is go home,
but as soon as you get home,
you want to come
out here again and start all over again.
She's right.
She knows you want to come out here.
My God, that's what she told me.
She said,
I know you want to go over there to Europe,
meet French women with big lips.
They think you're something special.
Well, they're wrong.
You ain't *.
You're the man I married.
I thought you were somebody.
Now I find out you ain't *.
You're a lonely man with a guitar
with a bunch of hairy assholes going,
oh.
In a room full of people who've drunk too much coffee.
You've got people of every color around you.
Still, you're not satisfied.
You always want something that you don't have.
You think more money will make you happy?
Well, you're right.
It will.
But you ain't *.
Or you're not *.
Whichever way you see it.
You're just surrounded by dogs dressed up in people suits.