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| Title: |
The Writer |
| Artist: |
chris macmanus
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| Description: |
Slightly different, had to dust the cobwebs off the electric guitar for this
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| Lyrics: |
He sat there on a daily basis
Each day like the next
Writing pretty poerty
Prose, songs, verses and text
A proliferative fellow,
Clever head stuck on his neck
Never once did drink, do drugs,
Do smoke or do sex
And as he piled his papers up
they towered high all around
In the quiet of his study-room
He never made a single sound
His pages were as delicate
As precious Autumn leaves
he's start another poem
And rarely did he sleep
Noone ever saw them
they were his to keep
He kept getting higher
they kept getting deep
And as he piled his papers up
they towered high all around
In the quiet of his study-room
He never made a single sound
His pen could be heard scratching
Right up 'till dawn
His grass was nearly 6 foot tall
Out in his old yellow lawn
Wouldn't work a nine to five
Wouldn't play the pawn
His fingerless gloves handless
His tattered clothes well worn
And as he piled his papers up
they towered high all around
In the quiet of his study-room
He never made a single sound
A proliferative fellow
Worked by candlelight
He never turn the lights on
And suffered such poor sight
But a lick of flame it strayed away
One Summer's night
His tattered papers set aflame
Putting up no fight
And as his papers burned up high
And towered all around
The darkness all was broken
What a dreadful sound
Like a pimp persuading Jesus
There's not much use
He suffered woeful writer's block
And didn't have a muse
He climbed up to his rafters
And there he slung his noose
He put his head right through the rope
And jumped off his roof
And as he hung there swaying high
with new stories but no pen
He shuffked off his mortal coil
Never to write again
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