my little paint brush is on a canvas
red-yellow, appeares to be the new color of my fingers
you have one pen and a million papers
why do you have ink smeared all on your fingers

your little black book is thicker than the old testament
it's old and dusty, nothing close to vivid
behind my canvas is an old fellow named sir Raymond
he's old and rusty, a walking replica of timid

your paper, my canvas
your pen is my paint brush
your words paint a thousand pictures
but my picture is worth a thousand words

You are a solitary writer, with a heart that is faint
I am afraid, a perfect world for you I cannot paint
but a fatal attraction is common
and what we have in common is pain