Typist's Soul

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