An Old Scab lyrics
by Crash Test Dummies
I sit each morning, look at my empty notebookThe room is quite, the air conditioning sounds like rain fallingManic-depressive composer Robert Schumann,When he could not write, would get down on his kneesAnd he would pray for helpIt's not as bad as eating your own liver;But still, I'd like to think that there are better methodsI try to tackle the page that lay before meBut then I drift off, and think about the concept of Ben-Wah balls...I rouse myself and I finish washing dishes,Make lists of errands, make all my phone callsAnd then I pray for helpBut each time I try to make a fresh stabI end up just picking at an old scab
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