I took a stroll down a prim rose lane on a clear blue day. Everything seemed so perfectly placed. Daisies lined each manicured lawn. Well-groomed men walked well-groomed dogs.
Stopped in a bar for a mid-day drink in search of a scene more inspiring. Chewed off the cap to my ball-point pen Thinking "Happen...Something happen..."
When everything's in order, is that what you write about? When there's nothin' much new, there's not much to say. When there's not much to say, I got everything to lose. It occured to me no news is bad news when you're tryin' to spark that fuse.. When you wanna sing them blues...
You're waiting around for water to boil... For the fire to lose control... But you can't heat up that kettle. You gotta leave the elements alone.
It scares the shit outta me when weathered writers lose their steam. I'm only gettin' older, and less interesting.
You can't make this shit up... You can't make this shit up... You can't make this shit up... You can't make this shit up... You can't make this shit up...
I stumbled out of a back alley on a blood-red dawn... The ramshackle block seemed trampled upon. Shattered glass shimmered on burt cement. A stray dog ate from a black bean tin. Stopped in Eddy's for a pick-me-up. For leads on how the town got so fucked. Bought a bloody-Mary with a tired grin Sayin' "Too dramatic...try again..."Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
