Here I sit in the gloom, of
my internal room, wondering what the new year will bring
Murder, mayhem or fraud? Some
toil for reward? Or will it be more of the same thing?
Man rich or poor, which will
knock on my door? Or will I get so bored I might sing
So silent so long, I could write a song, but music just isn’t
my thing
I’m okay with the pen, I
write lyrics and then … I can’t write a note, don’t know how
I could send it to Pink, just
what might she think, she’d probably go “OMG WOW”
Or perhaps Billy Joel, he’s
in a hole, just needs new words for a hit
What about to Madonna, she’s
nearly a gonner, but my fine proper words wouldn't fit
Is that a knock on my door?
Has new work found the floor? No, just someone else going home
I sent out a flyer, told the
world I’m a tryer, perhaps I should buy a new a phone
Not a call for a week, it’s
hard work I seek, how ‘bout a fraud full of clever deceit
That I could unravel, so the
judge drops his gavel, and says to the crim, “to your feet”
Again I digress, my music’s a
mess, I can’t tell a pearl from a crotchet
I tried to learn script, but
kept getting tripped, the tone told the world that I’d blotched it
I can make the words rhyme,
time after time, but the tempo it sometimes balloons
My words are in strife, they
need to be given a life, by someone who can write a tune
A twelve string guitar, that
won’t get me far, I was good on the symbols at school
I could have learned music,
but just didn’t choose it, too busy playing the fool
Must keep on trying, must get
published before dying, before I get fed with a spoon
I look back and reflect,
another reject, maybe Mr. Manilow needs a new tune
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