I’m painting a picture of a painting. You can call it copycat or you can call it amazing, but either way you are lying to me. ‘Cause it’s either mockery of an artist or unoriginality.
Those strokes aren’t my own, so you can send me back home with a pen for a poem and I’ll write you. Oh, and I’ll write you.
I’ll tell you that enamoring can make a lover blind, and turn him to a fool with Another fool’s mind. And if he ain’t confused by what he’s done, then he’ll anger somebody’s daughter and be told otherwise by somebody’s son.
And that’s another Of Mice and Men tale for the road, where you’ve got this average Joe and you’ve got a dope. But in our case they’re one in the same, as the man of fame and this future idiotic bloke.
Those words aren’t my own, so you can send me back home with a pen for a tune and I’ll write you. Oh, and I’ll write you.
I’ll sing about patience ’cause it’ll get you through, and you can sing along with me if you’re in the mood. I’ll show you how to make choices that don’t have to wait, and how to calm your soul through the voices of greats.
I’ll be your Bob Dylan or your Neil Young. I may not have a voice, but I’ve got words to be sung. I can tell you the times they are a-changing, and how I know everything from Hank to Hendrix.
Now I’ve stolen another melody, stolen what didn’t belong to me. Give me the shackles, or lock me up in the penitentiary, ’cause I haven’t been who I am, and that’s a crime worth the end of my living. I’m done. ‘Cause if I can’t see who I am, then I may as well be another no one.
And I’ll write you. Oh, I’ll write you. And you’ll write me back in white and black. And I’ll write you. Oh, I’ll write you. And in short response, I’ll say “I’m doing alright. You?”