…and he can talk into the midnight over a homemade herbal cigarette.
And he can wax poetic ‘bout anything, but to log it into memory? Well, that’s a different story. The writer. The writer who just can’t focus at all — looking for wisdom in all the wrong places.

And he can hum a million tunes; a million songs a million different ways. But putting pencil onto paper, he just wasn’t meant for. Integrity becomes a luxury. You’ve got to conform when you can’t be creative. Political songs don’t make it on the radio, unless you’re The Clash and you can rock the casbah. The Writer's a liar, cause he’s no writer at all. He’s just a singer who sold his soul by writing songs about what to think about love. What he thinks about love just comes so fast; and what could be broader than what to think about love? The words pour out like shit from his asshole.

The next day he’s rich and famous, singing a song he wrote out of desperation. A team of experts write them for him now so he doesn’t have to. He’s got groupies at his feet now. He’s riding in cars he’s only seen on TV. The money makes convincing arguments that just being a star doesn’t give you credential. The writer's a liar, cause he’s no writer at all. He’s just a sucka’ who sold his soul, and now he’s stuck singing what he thinks about love. What to think about love just comes so fast; and what could be broader than what to think about love?

Writer sold out, and what could be smarter?



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The Writer song meanings
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