In the quiet of the bedsit flat in a world of “no-one phones”
Sits, pen poised, the architect of dreams, hunched by his papers now alone
A rattle on the dustbins (just outside) fleetingly grabs his gaze
Over the piles of introspection and the omnipresent tobacco haze
All of his words are just dancing on the page
They're a product of his rage and he knows that he is dying
There was a time when it came easier, when the songs and words came free,
It's hard to find that protest now, he accepts his lot, his “me”
“I Love” - “You Love” - “He, She, It Loves” - But he's opting for the third
I'll put my pain on someone else's shoulders, to be the subject my words...
All of his words are just dancing on the page
They're a product of his rage and he knows that he is dying
But in his own way all he ever had to say can be said in the same way
Writing in the Third Person.
In a flash of sudden inspiration he changes all the “I”s to “He”
As if somehow to give away his burden and leave it all with me
An hour or two of messing with our language brings all his problems home
But sends them out in search of other creatures, in search of somewhere of their own
All of his words are just dancing on the page
They're a product of his rage and he knows that he is dying
But in his own way all he ever had to say can be said in the same way,
Writing in the Third Person