What can I say, it's the blues, it doesn't mean anything if it is not true.
lyrics
Fifty years ago,
I picked up a pen,
I put it to paper,
and my troubles began,
I wrote through the evening,
I wrote through the day,
looking for something,
another didn't say.
I sat at my piano,
tickled the keys,
the music that's inside me,
is like a disease,
it took over my mind,
it took over my life,
it set my blood to flowing,
like the cut of a knife.
And I can't let it go,
Though it left me with nothing,
Though I can't believe in heaven,
It captured my soul,
So I sit here all alone,
No one to call my own,
Pictures in my head,
Air in my wallet,
It's the curse of the artist,
Nobody cares.
I should have been a teacher,
led an academic life,
or a political man,
with a white picket wife,
I followed the money,
I followed the dream,
like water through my fingers,
it returned to the stream.
I'm a design engineer,
without the degree,
so no one with money,
will listen to me,
I invented electronics,
I invented a car,
it grew in my head,
which is not very far.
And I can't let it go,
Though it left me with nothing,
Though I can't believe in heaven,
It swallowed my soul,
So I sit here all alone,
No one to call my own,
Pictures in my head,
Air in my wallet,
It's the curse of the artist,
Nobody cares.
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