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Andy was a CatholicThe ethic ran through his bonesHe lived alone with his motherCollecting gossip and toysEvery Sunday when he went to ChurchHe'd kneel in his pew and he'd sayIt's work all that matters is workHe was a lot of thingsWhat I remember the most he'd sayI've got to bring home the baconSomeone's got to bring home the roastHe'd get to the factory earlyIf you'd ask himHe'd have told you straight outIt's workNo matter what I did it never seemed enoughHe said I was lazy, I said I was youngHe said, "How many songs did you write"I'd written zero, I'd lied and said, "Ten"You won't be young foreverYou should have written fifteenIt's workYou ought to make things bigPeople like it that wayAnd the songs with the dirty wordsMake sure your record them that wayAndy liked to stir up troubleHe was funny that wayHe said, "It's just work"Andy sat down to talk one dayHe said, "Decide what you wantDo you want to expand your parametersOr play museums like some dilettante"I fired him on the spot, he got red and he called me a ratIt was the worst word that he could think ofAnd I've never seen him like that, it's workI thought he said it's just workAndy said a lot of thingsI stored them all away in my headSometimes when I can't decide what I should doI think what would Andy have saidHe'd probably say, "You think too muchThat's 'cause there's work that you don't want to do"It's work, the most important thing is workIt's work, the most important thing is work