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No one wrote a song for me |
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Just instrumental not too long |
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As sure as sure could ever be |
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You'd only get the lyrics wrong |
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No solo Chet Baker ever played |
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lowered me slowly to my grave |
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The prose that Keats and Yates would save |
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was for King and Queen not knave |
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I have no poem that describes my charm |
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No story told that's short and sweet |
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I have no hymn, I have no psalm |
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This song I have it has no beat |
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Yes it has no beat |
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No tapping of feet |
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Yes it has no beat |
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Miles Davis played the black 'n' blues |
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Did he play for me to lose? |
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Cause just when round midnight falls |
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That tune's not his it's Kenny Ball's |
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Now on that graveyard on that grave |
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On that tombstone in the shade |
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No poem written, no accolade |
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No "We loved you" ever sprayed |
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There's just this feeling from that moss |
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When epitaph you cannot read |
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he must have lived it at budget cost |
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So he deserves to be beneath |
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All that William Robinson wrote |
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not one of my pluses did he portray |
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those lyrics stuck right down my throat |
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I never hit |
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It never hit |
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My hit parade |
