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The A-Sides
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Great American Novelist
By the end of the day I'll have nothing to say
Rustling like leaves on the old highway
You looked like the sun so I had to look away
I'll move in pages again, symphonies to amend
Traded in my dialogues for paper and pen
Living in crisp manuscripts till the end
You drove me to this, the great American novelist
Fictionally you fly Pan American lines
Seat belt signs are blinking now in perfect time
Your oxygen mask swaying from side to side
You drove me to this, the great American novelist
And I'm writing it all down so it won't follow me around anymore
I'm falling off the map and never coming back again
But this is my novel
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