This song is a letter sung
|
to a special friend of mine,
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one who stopped his singing
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somewhere back along the line.
|
|
I wondered if he'd had enough
|
of the rip-offs and the jive.
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Did he sing a song one night
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and lose the will to write?
|
|
It never was a business deal,
|
the thing with his guitar.
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It always seemed more like a dance he did
|
deep down inside the heart.
|
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Tonight I wonder if it's true,
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like we felt it at the start:
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an artist truly does it best
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when he does it from the heart.
|
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It seems to be much more than art
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when the art you sell is you.
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Be careful how you play the game
|
or else the game plays you.
|
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In the old days we'd stay up all night
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and laugh until we cried.
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We said the songs don't belong to us,
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we just bring some thoughts to light.
|
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The rule of thumb was never give
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the truth away to rhyme.
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A man can't lie when he tries to sing;
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it betrays him every time.
|
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We really write to understand
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more about ourselves,
|
and if we're lucky, maybe then
|
we'll touch somebody else.
|
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I just got back from Europe, friend,
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where they hung on every word.
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It made me feel a little better
|
'bout my chosen line of work.
|
|
They asked me if I knew if you
|
wrote a lot these days.
|
I told 'em all I know is that
|
you rarely ever play.
|
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We start out singing what we like;
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we give it all away.
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We wind up hating what we play
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and go begging to be paid.
|
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Let me say in closing, friend,
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I want you to know
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I understand how hard it was
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to let your music go.
|
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An artist must decide which parts
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to leave in and take out.
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And if he no longer plays the game,
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that's what the game's about.
|
|
-----------------
|
To The Artist
|
| Jerry Jeff Walker |
