I am a novelist, the pen clenched in my fist
In this long November night
I’ve got a pot of tea, My cat is here with me
I guess we have some time to write
You may not remember me, I’m one you cannot see
And you’re a figment of my mind
But I remember you, and I will relate to you
How both our fates are still entwined
At the time you were the hero of my tale
Knowing all too well if you won’t cope, I’d fail (Oh, oh)
You had a charming air, the looks were also there
My beta reader thought you hot
And so I set up stage, filled you with lust and rage
And thought that you could drive my plot
As time wore on you proved a brick and a stubborn mule
Leaving my novel to look like the work of a fool (Oh, oh)
And then my plot was gone, I could not carry on
While you were roaming wild and free
I gave you one last chance: Abide my will and prance! –
And my poor muse gave up on me
That one day in spring, my dear muse left my side
But, before she did she took my hand as she madly cried: (Oh, oh)
»Fight him, write him
Make him spend his life between your pages for ages
Drag him through your book and when he rots there, plot’s there
Fifty thousand words and he is done!«… Weiterlesen