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Alone in a bag in my closet,
hangs a suit with a story to tell.
I had it tailor made for an interview date,
that would lift my career out of hell.
But the date met with swift cancelation,
no reason, no charges, nor trial:
I wonder what they found this time, in my counterfile.
My wife's got the same occupation,
at least by credentials, you see.
But searching for suitable placement,
she's done even worsely than me.
In this I find no consolation,
it's prob'ly from our trip down the aisle.
I'm sure there's a record of that in her counterfile.
Yeah, living's a bitch, when there's a glitch,
in your counterfile.
I still got that blurb from the paper,
that says Joe McCarthy expired.
If that was the end of such capers,
what keeps me stuck in the mire?
Perhaps it's positions I've taken,
on issues of equity true.
But why should I beg, for a chance to renege,
when I'd only profess them anew.
'Cause what would be shown for such changes?
Just another round of revile,
drawn from the palette of lies in my counterfile.
Yeah, refusing to mime is a capital crime,
says my counterfile.
When someday I answer to Jesus,
for what with my talent I found,
I hope in His mercy He'll notice
how squarely I stood my ground.
And so, come the day of my judgment,
on which I surrender my soul,
I'll reach for the hand of Saint Peter,
and ask if there's room in the fold.
Though I got no claim to no halo,
I pray only just for this while,
the truth will be measured against
what's in my counterfile.
Or is there a hold, on the fate of my soul,
in my counterfile, in my counterfile,
in my counterfile, in my counterfile.
Copyright ©2000 Ryeside Music (BMI)