Lyrics:

The journalist writes down
The things he remembers,
The things he forgets
Are the things that you feel

Gets off on his own quotes,
And breaks into (Thatcher?),
I don't understand...
Who will buy him a meal?

(Chorus)
Let's face it, I'm wrong again
Let's face it, it's still Sunday
Let's face it, I'm wrong again
Let's face it, it don't worry me

You feel in the first set,
That this is a nightmare,
I can't hear a word
And I don't feel a thing,

The manager looks on,
Ignoring the problem
'Cuz he's the solution,
So, what's in it for him?

(Chorus)

You get so excited,
And then you are let down
The idea that you had
Is pushed to one side

But, then in the next set,
It's perfectly magic,
And all of your problems
Are suddenly fine

(Chorus)