Them Old Songwriting Blues

E
Well, it's three in the mornin', should be sleepin' in my bedroom
    A
Not sittin' in this cellar like some silly damn mushroom
   E                                        B
My brain is hurtin', I think it just blew a fuse
            E
I've smoked enough cigarettes to kill a camel
      A
Drunk enough black coffee to fill the English Channel
    E                  B               E
And oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues

E
I've been writin' this song for what seems like forever
      A
Doin' bad things to my lungs and worse things to my liver
  E                                B
I ain't got many organs left I can abuse
E
I'm gonna try to stop writin' songs, I swear
             A
Do somethin' easy like wrestlin' grizzly bears
    E                   B              E
And oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues

A
Oh, Mama, why didn't I listen to you
         E
When you told me not to be a musician
     A
Oh, Mama, at least I didn't shame you completely
    B
And become a politician

       E
Havin' trouble with my meter, and trouble with my rhymin'
  A
I wish to God that I was Paul Simon
     E                                           B
That little smartass has more talent than he can use
E
I try to write my songs deep and esoteric
         A
But they just come out the same old Eric
    E                  B               E
And oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues

E
And if I finish this song, who'll appreciate it?
  A
I know the critics are gonna hate it
        E                                    B
They'll roast me like a lamb chop at a bar-b-que
E
They'll all say, "He's a one-hit wonder
        A
Written nothin' since 'The Band Played Waltzin' Matilda' "
    E                  B               E
And oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues

    A                                  E
And why do I write all my songs in the key of D?
A                                 B
Why don't I try another one like -- umm-err-umm --
E
I think my mind's beginnin' to go
        A
I just found myself wishin' I was Barry Manilow
E                  B               E
Oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues

E A E B E A  E B E

    A                           E
And why do I torture myself the way that I do?
   A                                 B
Be easier bashin' my skull in with a lump of four-by-two

E
I've tried to sing this song in an American accent
    A
I'm told my Scottish burr is too much of a distractment
   E                                     B
At least that's what they say in their reviews
E
And deejays dishin' out their music valium
     A
Will say, "It's too long, son, it ain't got any drums"
    E                  B               E
And oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues

E
So I sit here like a dummy nearly crying with frustration
    A
Songwritin's just an exercise in mental masturbation
   E                                       B
Deserted by that fickle jade they call the Muse
      E
She's out there somewhere laughin' at me
        A
Sayin', "Son, go back to accountancy!"
    E                  B               E
And oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues

 E                  B               E
Oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues
 E                  B               E
Yes, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues

Cifra adaptada de fontes públicas. Direitos da composição pertencem aos autores e gravadoras originais. Esta página é parte do projeto educacional Mania de Músico.