I write some songs to make you rich,
To make you think I'm cool,
Another will buy a Rolls Royce,
Another a swimming pool.
And as I'm getting much more rich,
More cars, houses and women,
Who could have thought of such wealth could come,
From something as simple as singing.
Now I am known, what do I do?
With all my ill-earned wealth?
I yield to every temptation,
And lack my physical health.
No drink I scorn,
No drug untried,
No food I do pass by,
I've turned into a nervous wreck,
Sometimes I laugh hysterically,
And then break down and cry.
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