Roger Day Bain

Lyrics

The Writer
lyrics circa 1978 ©2018 Roger Bain

Pen in hand, alone he sits
Gets up to pace when nothing quite fits
He’s got his notebooks scattered around
So when he’s moved he can write it down

He wants to take you on a special ride
He’s laying bare what he feels inside

His car won’t start, his drain won’t drain
His ceiling leaks when it begins to rain
His uncle has a little business he could run
But the writer doesn’t think that it would be much fun

The writer has work he can’t leave undone
He has no choice he is the chosen one

His honey says he could be driving a bus
Sez it would make a better living for us
The rent is due, the gin is gone
He’s long since crossed, his Rubicon

And the writer keeps writing, for him it’s a must
So much to write before he turns into dust

He’s trying to capture how he feels inside
He’s made a vow that he will never lie
His friends make money, he makes none
The writer has work he can’t leave undone

Break (verse)

Not many have read this thing that he’s writing
But many have fought this battle he’s fighting
He has been sentenced to a paragraph
That one day will be his epitaph

Here lies the writer, he did what he could
Some of it was okay, and some of it’s good