I sit each morning
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Look at my empty notebook
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The room is quiet
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The air conditioning sounds like rain falling
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Manic-depressive composer Robert Schumann
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When he could not write
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He'd get down on his knees and he would pray for help
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It's not as bad as eating your own liver
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But still, I'd like to think that there are better methods
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I try to tackle the page that lay before me
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But then I drift off and think about the concept of ben-wah balls
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I rouse myself and I finish washing dishes
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Make lists of errands
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Make all my phone calls
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And then I pray for help
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But each time I try to make a fresh stab
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I end up just picking at an old scab
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An Old Scab
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Crash Test Dummies |