It isn't that I don't want to write
And it isn't that I don't have time to write
I have all the time in the world
Sat in this lay-by, watching the traffic stream by
I could always say that I had had a breakdown
Car breakdown that is, nothing too dramatic
Or I could say that there had been a bad accident
Not that I was involved, but the road was closed
It isn't that I mind telling fibs
And it isn't that I spend my whole life telling fibs
Yes I know I do have whole pockets of deceit
Sat here, under the blue sky, in the warm morning sun
Always a friend of the silver birch
And the maroon aubergine tint to the tops of the hedgerow
Always a friend to the silhouettes of the wizened old trees
Set off by the silver sky, sunlit from the heavens
Yesterday evening, after bathing whilst reading Fante
I thought about brinksmanship
He uses that trick time after time; this time you think
Make her, make her this time, but no, he doesn't make her
He backs off, and you back off with him
Leave me alone he cries, just back off won't you
And that's exactly what you choose to do
Time, after time, after time
You could tell them that you don't feel like it anymore
That you have done your stint
It's time for new blood
Time to let the youngsters have a go, have a right good go
