Charles Bukowski - One thirty-six a.m. lyrics
[Charles Bukowski - One thirty-six a.m. lyrics]
I laugh sometimes when I think about say
Céline at a typewriter or Dostoevsky
Or Hamsun ordinary men with feet, ears, eyes
Ordinary men with hair on their heads
Sitting there typing words
While having difficulties with life
While being puzzled almost to madness
Dostoevsky gets up
He leaves the machine to piss comes back
Drinks a glass of milk and thinks about
The casino and the roulette wheel
Céline stops, gets up, walks to the
Window, looks out, thinks, my last patient
Died today, I won't have to make any more
Visit's there when I saw him last
He paid his doctor bill
It's those who don't pay their bills
They live on and on
Céline walks back, sit's down at the machine
Is still for a good two minutes
Then begins to type
Hamsun stands over his machine thinking
I wonder if they are going to believe
All these things I write?
He sit's down, begins to type
He doesn't know what a writer's block is:
He's a prolific son-of-a-bitch
Damn near as magnificent as the sun
He types away and I laugh
Not out loud
But all up and down these walls, these
Dirty yellow and blue walls
My white cat asleep on the table
Hiding his eyes from the light
He's not alone tonight and neither am
I
Céline at a typewriter or Dostoevsky
Or Hamsun ordinary men with feet, ears, eyes
Ordinary men with hair on their heads
Sitting there typing words
While having difficulties with life
While being puzzled almost to madness
Dostoevsky gets up
He leaves the machine to piss comes back
Drinks a glass of milk and thinks about
The casino and the roulette wheel
Céline stops, gets up, walks to the
Window, looks out, thinks, my last patient
Died today, I won't have to make any more
Visit's there when I saw him last
He paid his doctor bill
It's those who don't pay their bills
They live on and on
Céline walks back, sit's down at the machine
Is still for a good two minutes
Then begins to type
Hamsun stands over his machine thinking
I wonder if they are going to believe
All these things I write?
He sit's down, begins to type
He doesn't know what a writer's block is:
He's a prolific son-of-a-bitch
Damn near as magnificent as the sun
He types away and I laugh
Not out loud
But all up and down these walls, these
Dirty yellow and blue walls
My white cat asleep on the table
Hiding his eyes from the light
He's not alone tonight and neither am
I