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• Artiste: Jan Allain
• Titre: Typist's Soul
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She played her typewriter like a Steinway Kept Belgium chocolates in her pending tray She made the most of every day In her spare time she was a dj Shostakovitch to rock and roll They never noticed she had a soul Ain't it funny what people tell you Try to like what you have Take your money and then they sell you You can have most anything you like She told her lover, now it's over He cried an endless symphony I've found another, that's me She dressed her desk in a letter Mr Money, I have gone And on the radio they played this song I don't want your holy water I need your humble pie I don't have to feel I ought to Go to heaven when I die Just be myself, I won't run with the pack If you bang on my front door too hard I'll just move it round the back