Lyrics

Sitting at his desk one day, the pages staring up at him
The pen and paper ready in his hand
With a mind that's full of sorrow and of pain and love and happiness
He starts to write a book he never planned.

He was a fool, a fool who played with words
He wrote so many songs that no one had ever heard
And publication was the last thing on his mind
Writing for himself, to leave his thoughts behind

Words and phrases flowing 'cross the paper like a river will
Try to reach the sea, so it can be
Somewhere where it can belong, and listen to a different song
Away from all the darkest misery


He was a fool, a fool who played with words
He wrote so many songs that no one had ever heard
And publication was the last thing on his mind
Writing for himself, to leave his thoughts behind

So this writer tried his hand at poetry and prose
He rose at dawn with the cockerel as it crowed.
And every time he'd finished he would read the whole thing through again
His hand stained with the black ink from his pen

He was a fool, a fool who played with words
He wrote so many songs that no one had ever heard
And publication was the last thing on his mind
Writing for himself, to leave his thoughts behind

This writer he has passed away, he never really had his day
Never gained his fortune and his fame
Several of his works were found and published, so he's now renowned
For being the strangest writer in the game

He was a fool, a fool who played with words
He wrote so many songs that no one had ever heard
And publication was the last thing on his mind
Writing for himself, to leave his thoughts behind