He gets up real early on his mornin' drive Down to the office for his nine to five He drives a '94, two-tone, economy car He loves to tell the local bands down at the bar that he's the critic Yeah, I can hook you up, I know everybody, in the business He flunked junior high band he couldn't march in time He tried to write a song once, he couldn't make it rhyme He learned two or three chords on a pawn shop guitar He just never quite had what it took to be a star, so he's a critic I work for the gazette man I got a real job He did a 5-star column on a band he never heard He did a bluegrass review about an unkind word He thought it was time to ask his boss for a raise His boss said I can't even tell if anybody's even readin' your page Yeah So he thought And he thought a little more He caught a young hot star headin' into town And then he hid behind his typewriter and gunned the boy down Here come the letters, the e-mails, the faxes, they raised him to twenty thousand dollars after taxes Now he's a happy critic He say I'm rollin' in the dough Man I could do this forever, this is easy Everybody's readin' my column Hey ah, y'all don't tell my mom, that I write the music column for the gazette 'Cause uh, he still thinks I play piano down at the Cathouse Got my self-respect back though Let's get funky with this boys, play it out now, play it out Come on Scotty, let's do this thing Like we always did this thing Jump in there Dave Help me, oh we're walkin' the dog now Walk it on out Y'all better hurry, my fingers are gettin' tired Y'all gonna have to hurry Wearin' me out No coffee break, ah I'll tell you somethin' boy This sounds like a take to me And they gonna love you 'cause they already love me It's the critic