And you ask forgiveness.
You've asked God forgiveness for all the terrible things you've done, but have you ever asked
her?
And no, 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, and 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, accept 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.
Train sounds a little better than that.
Your wives, your girlfriends, your children, they're not born yet.
We call them the 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.
By 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 just a lonely man with a guitar, with a bunch of hairy assholes going, oh, oh, 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.
30 miles to the next bar.