--- Pink Floyd

Get away
You get a good job with more pay and you're okay
It's a gas
Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash
New car, caviar, four star, daydream
Think I'll buy me a football team
Get back
I'm alright, Jack, keep your hands off of my stack
It's a hit
Don't give me that do goody good bullshit
I'm in the high-fidelity first-class traveling set
And I think I need a Lear jet
It's a crime
Share it fairly, but don't take a slice of my pie
So they say
Is the root of all evil today
But if you ask for a rise
It's no surprise that they're giving none away
Away, away, away
Away, away, away
I was in the right
Yes, absolutely in the right
I certainly was in the right
Yeah, I was definitely in the right, that geezer was cruisin' for a bruisin'
Why does anyone do anything?
I don't know, I was really drunk at the time
Just telling him it was in, he could get it in number two
He was asking why it wasn't coming up on freight eleven
And after, I was yelling and screaming and telling him why
It wasn't coming up on freight eleven

Why does anyone do anything?

In that country where men broke stones
for pennies each day, building mansions
over gleaming streets, Pink Floyd's "Money," 
echoed against the bathroom's flesh tiles, 
inch squares marching from floor to walls to 
ceiling, the box room entirely open, no 
curtains, no stalls, as water from the big roof tank 
splashed over her naked body, over 
late afternoon rainbow sheets 
draining soot and dust and sweat, 
soap and fret and unrequited desires, 
fear and fairytales and Herbal Essence --
all the ingredients of 70s 
teenage angst -- 
into a hole in the floor and 
out to the dry world. 

"Money," she sang, "get away," as if 
her family didn't have any, as if 
she wasn't a white princess 
up in her glittering, wet tower, 
flushing precious water 
to the hungry streets,
letting it roll over her untouched body 
like a thousand peso coins, like
invented grief.

Suggested soundtrack: Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon.