From the recording Little Town
Written by Paul Hartshorne
Lyrics
WACKY WRITER
He’s a writer, you know and you can tell right when you shake his hand
That’s he’s getting away from the rat race somehow
He’s getting out of his head somehow
He’s like the Liberty Bell, he’s got a little imperfection
And a hundred and nineteen rejections on file
No kiss and tell for him, he’s gonna write himself a classic
But then, hey, what’s to tell, ya know his life is so monastic
But his soul gets twisted around the trunk of every hopeless dying tree
He’ll throw his hand up in the air, singing praises to the sky
And then he’ll scribble something down
He’s working overtime pumping irony
He’s all alone in this world but better off than you might be thinking
He ain’t smoking, he ain’t drinking, not now
Just getting out of his head somehow
He took the road, he took the road, he took the road, he took the road
He took the road less traveled by
He’s like the Frosty man, he’s a ‘no regrets’ kinda guy
No kiss and tell for him, that would be most unseemly
Oh, maybe just one kiss, oh maybe, maybe just one dream
But his soul gets twisted around the trunk of every hopeless dying tree
He’ll throw his hand up in the air, singing praises to the sky
And then he’ll scribble something down
He’s working overtime pumping irony
He’s working overtime pumping irony