No, I wanna explain it.
I wanna explain the bad days.
There’s this symphony that everyone is playing,
it’s got those melodies,
those overtone harmonies,
‘n they’re all keepin’ perfect two-three-fours,
‘n they’re all in bell kicks ‘n kick flips,
and then you come in playing a kazoo and siting criss-cross-apple-sauce.
‘n they’re all laughin’,
‘n they’re all complain’,
‘cept that’s all in your head,
but you can hear ’em just as it weren’t,
as it is.
and that right beat is just running from your fumbling notes
and your big solo is in three four,
but you cannot play three four,
so you pretend.
You pretend.
And no one but those naggin’ doubts really talks much to you,
because you’re pretendin’,
because you’re not really there.
It’s not every day,
and it’s not every one,
but those are the bad ones.
Those are the hard ones.
