He sat in silence
His music may well have been playing everywhere yet, seemingly, he was going nowhere
For, it seems, he had been snared entirely by the awesome fear
Too many decades on the road which had all by themselves managed to make it inside the pages of a book
My, oh my, how that one took some telling all of its own accord
But he was now left reeling, peeling the walls of this, his umpteenth hotel room within a month
Uncertain as to what his all too heady future may just bring
Sing so loud and, by the very near end, seems you get to trust no-one
Dependent upon just one person, namely yourself
A shelf full of albums, yet the media still lingers, prepared to tear on into your every next move
Place a rather sensationalized hex over you
Choose, so much as decipher your every last groove
Then, he gathered himself together again, took out his favoured pen and settled himself on down
By the radio, where there was never any real editing – back to an age-old time far superior, far more sublime
He would smoke and write ’til getting it JUST right
Place it on vinyl, where no-one could ever doubt where the true talent lies
No fly in the ointment here
Finally getting to prise his jagged eyes wide open all over again
And to think, I lent him his very next line…

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