| 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 |
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