I took a stroll down a prim rose lane
on a clear blue day.
Everything seemed so perfectly placed.
Daisies lined each manicured lawn.
Well-groomed men walked well-groomed dogs.
Stopped in a bar for a mid-day drink
in search of a scene more inspiring.
Chewed off the cap to my ball-point pen
Thinking "Happen...Something happen..."
When everything's in order,
is that what you write about?
When there's nothin' much new, there's not much to say.
When there's not much to say, I got everything to lose.
It occured to me no news is bad news
when you're tryin' to spark that fuse..
When you wanna sing them blues...
You're waiting around for water to boil...
For the fire to lose control...
But you can't heat up that kettle.
You gotta leave the elements alone.
It scares the shit outta me
when weathered writers lose their steam.
I'm only gettin' older, and less interesting.
You can't make this shit up...
You can't make this shit up...
You can't make this shit up...
You can't make this shit up...
You can't make this shit up...
I stumbled out of a back alley
on a blood-red dawn...
The ramshackle block seemed trampled upon.
Shattered glass shimmered on burt cement.
A stray dog ate from a black bean tin.
Stopped in Eddy's for a pick-me-up.
For leads on how the town got so fucked.
Bought a bloody-Mary with a tired grin
Sayin' "Too dramatic...try again..."
