(sing to tune of Walk Like an Egyptian)
All the old screenplays in my room,
They gather dust, reek of gloom and doom,
Each a rotting corpse (oh whey oh)
Write something new, leave those in their tomb.
Macchiato flows by the mile
The waitress stops, speaks but doesn't smile
Gathers up my trash (oh whey oh)
"You leaving soon? Hate your writing style."
Writer types overlook her gripes, say
"Go away-oh, my cafe'-oh
and I like to write fiction."
Clacking on my keys through the day
The waitress comes, says it's time to pay
Showed her my receipts (oh whey oh)
She said "too bad, please leave anyway."
Underneath the chair, dropped a note
Next thing I know, knife against my throat
Forgot to take her meds (oh whey oh)
She went to jail, I proofed what I wrote.
All the cops in the coffee shop say
"Take her away-oh, don't delay-oh,
She's got an affliction."