Feel Too Damned Fine to Make No Money Blues

Here I am with my paper and my guitar.
Working my behind to rags reachin’ for that star.
Tryin’ to be a master of sardonic and cynical wit,
but you sittin’ there on your badonkadonk don’t inspire me a bit

Love’s supposed to make me shine like some bright poetic sun,
but sittin’ here with nothin’ to do but love you I can’t get nothin’ done;
when I was sad and all alone I could write all freakin’ day,
but with you around my mind is sound…

(This here part is the bridge)
This pathertic verbal impotence will be the ruin of me.
How can I be a tragic man if you insist on loving me?
You’ve left my dark and troubled soul shivering in the rain.
You’ve humped away my muse and she may not come back again.
Tra-la-la tra-la-la-la

Where is my sarcasm when the world’s so god-damned bright?
My martyrdom is dead; you’ve screwed my plans for suicide.
If only you could be a pal and dump me now and then,
and once I’ve got it written down…

—Don Whittington


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