How much sorrow is there sleeping?
deep in your chest?
How much grief have you given
while asleep at you're desk?
do you cry to the future
as it plays in your rest
oh sweet writer of dreams
please write me a song
From the deep well of silence
a voice can be heard
a banshee a siren
a wall-wailing word
no coin I have give
was more deserved
then this one for you
now write me a song
there is paint in your skull
and it seeps through you pen
as you sleep in your waking
you will smile and then
you shall grasp a new reason
to write the word ten
on the page of your book
now write me a song
belly-dancers are singing
they weep through the room
and these angels feathers
how they flash and zoom
to the sounds that our fathers
played to the tune
of Beethoven's symphany
that cold night in june
and how on the black sky
they etched a dull rune
it claimed to be something
as it blocked out the moon
now it is asking you
"please write me a song"
your dreams are expanding
stretch outward for miles
the winds that you see
they are made out of smiles
of the girls you've forsaken
to write mosaic tiles
alone in your dream room
too lonely by miles
but i'm quite sure that you
will find it worth while
now i will protect you if
you write me a song
II
How soft is the sound stretching over the bed
this lonely mans room where he is now lying dead
how cold is the fire that would play in his head
with a gun that was mean a bullet now read
he took all himself and we don't see him no more
He has entered his dream world, lost in the grace
of gravestone and headphones and worn silken lace
thats stretched over dust which seems shaped like a face
and now as he sleeps he will play out a bolero of haste
to move us and beckon us right out of our doors
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