Reaching for his pen, he then commence to try to write the story of his life
Working all day and sleeping all night, what was there to say, what was there to write
Loving is for rich men, hating is for poor men, money is for fighters, crying is for writers
Living in the center of his own little world, his face never seen, his voice never heard
An endless stream of sorrow flows, a victim of the life he chose
Might as well write about the working of a 40 oil spot combustion engine
Putting down his pen, he turned and said I want to live but I wish I were dead
ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh
ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh
Working all day and sleeping all night, what was there to say, what was there to write
Loving is for rich men, hating is for poor men, money is for fighters, crying is for writers
Living in the center of his own little world, his face never seen, his voice never heard
An endless stream of sorrow flows, a victim of the life he chose
Might as well write about the working of a 40 oil spot combustion engine
Putting down his pen, he turned and said I want to live but I wish I were dead
ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh
ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh