This promising career, it isn’t what it seems.
They lure you in with lofty goals, then steal away your dreams.
This corporate confinement, the desperation grows...
And so I wrote a ragtime melody, and this is how it goes.

1.

   The keyboard sticks, an urgent call,
   Got Dilbert® on my cubicle wall.
   My neighbor’s cryin’, she thinks she’s gonna get fired.

   I’m up to here with all of these
   Interdepartmental dependencies.
   It’s way past time - to find myself retired.

Chorus:

I want to be a beachcomber, and here’s my project plan.
I’ll get a shiny used metal detector,
And live off all the nickels that I find in the sand.
I’m gonna be a beachcomber, stop me if you can.
   I got no assets to depreciate,
   I got no appointments so I can’t be late,
   Net present value of a buck-thirty-eight,
Doin’ the beachcomber rag.

2.

   A big straw hat, and rollup jeans,
   Sunglasses and some magazines,
   A summer day, the surf is four feet high.

   A frying pan, a warm bedroll,
   Bait and tackle and a fishing pole,
   I’ll work real hard - at watching the girls go by.

Chorus:

I want to be a beachcomber, and here’s my project plan.
I’ll get a shiny used metal detector,
And live off all the nickels that I find in the sand.
I’m gonna be a beachcomber, stop me if you can.
   I got no assets to depreciate,
   I got no appointments so I can’t be late,
   A barbecued bonita sitting on my plate,
Doin’ the beachcomber rag.