You write your songs of love. Like the channel of the century. And I'm receiving like I'm meant to be impressed. By you. Following your lust. Like an intrepid adventurer. While you leave your trail of disaster. Sing it. Like you've never said it before. Mean it. With your wasted heart. Try to believe that theres. Something to stay for. But theres always before and after. For the Entertainer. Folds out on itself. Like a never-ending mystery. And I wonder will there ever be enough. Time. To write your book of wrongs. And delight us like a bachelor. Is that why they call you. The Entertainer. Sing it. Like you've never said it before. Mean it. With your wasted heart. Try to believe that theres. Something to stay for. But theres always before and after. For the Entertainer