This musician’s not got long to sing,
Halving his tempo and half a tone lower…
But anyway, he is a real talent.
When lilac and mountain ash bloom,
new season and birthday roll round,
And confidentially 
To a secret address 
They bring me books, ballet, and bikinis 
And a half-dead guy - plus guitar -
So we’ll both tell each other
little something like the [bad word] 

He’s not got long to sing, 
But that’s no one’s business.
He continued to play 
But went wide of the mark…
Every hunter with a gun collection
Dreams of bagging a young tiger,
His bare hands around its neck
So there’s finally faith in himself.

The land is rich in feather grass
These lands will all be sold
For thousands, even more, 
But what’s the point, then, eh? 
In a half-dead guy - plus guitar -
Sharing vodka and something like the [bad word]