I lay on a hill at the side of a meadow Waiting for lightning to strike from above To be cut by the sword of devine inspiration Cut by the sword of the angel of love Far from the bar rooms away from the stages Apart from the push and the shove
And there all alone with my quill and my paper This old wooden box and strings made of steel Fumbling numbly a scratcher and scraper I endeavor in vainly to describe how I feel An emotion invoking creative vocation But which of my feelings is real
And just whenI think it's all perfectly clear Something inside me says stop This is the worst thing you've written in years It's better to live with a permanent block Return to confusion and fluid illusion Begining again at the top
I lay on a hill at the side of a meadow Waiting for lightning to strike from above To be cut by the sword of divine inspiration Cut by the sword of the angel of love And still I am waiting, patiently waiting I wait for the angel of love