I am singing through the voices of my heroes
Here on a grey day in February
And the wind is yelling at me to stop.
I have burned through Neil Young
And now I don’t know where to turn.
I want to paint the mellow autumn
That he describes, only my drifting fingers
Repel the brush. My own voice can’t hit
C sharp minor 7. I want to drown this creative sorrow
In a bar, alone, with quiet music,
But I am too nervous to live out this cliché.