struggling with life a bit

conscience and all that jazz

i waste my time pontificating

i endure idle indecision

come to an awful fork in the road

dont wanna choose but journey must go on

it cannot stop for long something must therefore give

life is like music

containing an admixture of feelings soul and reason

life’ll bring you to yer knees until you not thinking straight

music ‘ll bring ya to yer knees but you dont wanna think straight

i have all these words at my disposal

but that doesnt mean i’m getting through

some sadnesses are hard to work into songs

some gloom that cant be harnessed n trotted out

a good song for someone else but not me

everyones songs are coming true

i’m living all these songs by the dayload

hard to write a song if you living in a song

hard to paint naive when you feel so weary n cynical

hard to write if you feel wrong

hard to right if you feel left

hard to handle too

trapped in a verse going back round to the opening words

ive had that happen all the time

a double chorus in a different key

a future in a different time signature

a spirit voice chopped and inserted on the bridge

beginning wonder what the middle ate

songs in exile songs in pain

songs in memory sweet again

somewhere theyre playing our song baby

our song remember that

echoes round coldwater flat

F# minor

yeah i sang my girl to sleep

strumming quietly through afternoons totally forgotten

almost inaudible around this world

like a womb the night was all around

i longed for that night which never comes

i wrote songs to talk to myself

to bridge the gap between inner n outer me

i wanted my baby to feel loved

so i sang her all our endings

we will lose each other somewhere eventually i said

it was warm that day

i had a black guitar

the whole world seemed adolescent

she was sleeping gently now

my black guitar was guiding her through realms of slumber

her dreams would be nice

my chord sequence would insure that

i start to pick up a rhythm

yeah but that day is long gone now long long gone

my black guitar was stolen in metropolis

i wonder whose playing it now and i feel jealous

guitars are like sweethearts

you can always get another but it may not be the same

i dunno what i mean

songs are easier to write than digging with a spade

music is like life

it can change suddenly

it can end real soon

it speeds up

it fades away

it ends in silence

bands break up

sweethearts break up

eventually guitars break up i guess

everything put together must come apart

some element will abrade or corrode it

some unforeseen friction will wear it down

your breadwinner gets toasted

harping on about lyres

plucking your eye-pods

i get confused just opening the score

all those players fucking playing

those cats man fishing for birdies

that devils music that old black magic

being pulled apart here

my record is scratched

my grooves are jumping

my disc is warped

my needle is worn

my belt is slipping

my woofer is blown

more grief coming atcha

blues in the night indeed

warm afternoons into shiny cold night

which tries to spit you out

still you have to do what you have to do

the best song

the best life

the best blah blah blah

yeah

if that’ll do