paroles de chanson The Wages of Sin - Rupert Holmes

Crime don't pay... that's what I tells 'em.
If it did, would I be here mixing pipes,
Wot then I sells 'em for a pint of rotten beer?
Throats you cut to pocket tuppence,
Then you slut to cop some sleep.
Bash a face for bleedin' tuppence -
Pure disgrace to work so cheap.

So I say, don't be a sinner for the price of London gin.
You can't pay for one square dinner with the wages of sin.
Sell my soul? 'Cor love, come off it!
Who would buy this sack of skin?
On the whole, there ain't much profit in the wages of sin.
I've seen girls from gutter fam'lies trap
Rich men with flutt'ry ways,
And they coo, "Cor, pass the jam please,"
Over nuptial breakfast trays,
Over there in bed eleven sleeps a bleedin' hypocrite.
Spends his days eyes cast to 'eaven;
Spends his nights among this sh-

S' why I say, don't take half-measures,
Do things right and dig right in.
In this world, there's greater treasures
Than the wages of sin.
I get threats, but seldom offers. If I did,
I'd pack it in.
You can't fill too many coffers with the wages of sin.