The Artist

Oh poor old me I said I would not do this to myself again
 Oh poor old me I said I would not do this to myself again
 But I been' told that winter's are not cold
 If someone's there to light the flame until it turns to coal
 Well I admit there's something wrong with me
 I take the hit and then ask him why won't you let me be?
 I said I'm through of living with you
 You better run for your life before I break you in two
 Oh poor old me I said I would not do this to my friends again
 Oh poor old me I said I would not do this to my friends again
 But I been' told that writers are not bold
 Until you tell them that their poetry is made of gold
 Well I admit there's something wrong with me
 I can't get through a novel without falling half asleep
 I said I'm through with living with you
 You better hide your books before I tear them all in two
 Well I been' told that singers get real cold
 Until you tell them that the spotlight's made for them alone
 Well I admit there's something wrong with it
 I'll bite the bullet so it doesn't shoot me in the head
 Well I admit there's something wrong with me
 I take the hit and then ask him why won't you let me be?
 I said I'm through of living with you
 You better run for your life before...