Getting up another day with the seagulls.
And I tie all of my troubles to their wings.
Now they’re flying closer to the ocean
and when they drown, that’s when the country singer sings.
I’ve been waking early in the morning,
making cups of coffee for no one
cause as soon as it gets to be 6 o’clock, I’m leaving.
And my gut don’t know about rising with the sun.
Couldn’t sleep last night, so I’m crying
to the radio and driving slow.
I want to turn day back to night, and I’m trying,
but it beats me no matter how far west I go.
And I’ve got more than one reason
for striking out solo.
I like to be on my own. As far as bands go,
they never came back after the show.
So I’m getting up early-morning every morning in July,
so my hair never really getting dry.
And I’m sweating through all my clothes,
but I’ve got to give another try.
And I have no regrets, cause I can’t afford to.
I’ve got to hustle through June and July.
And after that I can’t really claim to
know what gigs on which I can rely.
I’m hanging on another man’s say-so.
Could be eating out of cans till late next May.
At this rate, I’d better move my capo
cause I feel a little high-strung today.
So I’m getting up another day with the seagulls.
Reading a dime store novel with eleven sequels.
Flying in a lonesome, heavy way.
I’m not flying here for pleasure, but for pay.
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