I lay on a hill at the side of a meadow
Waiting for lightning to strike from above
To be cut by the sword of devine inspiration
Cut by the sword of the angel of love
Far from the bar rooms away from the stages
Apart from the push and the shove

And there all alone with my quill and my paper
This old wooden box and strings made of steel
Fumbling numbly a scratcher and scraper
I endeavor in vainly to describe how I feel
An emotion invoking creative vocation
But which of my feelings is real

And just whenI think it's all perfectly clear
Something inside me says stop
This is the worst thing you've written in years
It's better to live with a permanent block
Return to confusion and fluid illusion
Begining again at the top

I lay on a hill at the side of a meadow
Waiting for lightning to strike from above
To be cut by the sword of divine inspiration
Cut by the sword of the angel of love
And still I am waiting, patiently waiting
I wait for the angel of love