So write the damn song, be done with the past.

Today’s Tom Sawyer, tomorrow’s Moishe Kapoyer, so help me Rush.

Ya gotta fight, for your right ... to write.

No song yesterday / No song today / I’m avoiding something / What it is I can’t say.

It’s late / The day is spent / I lay and wait / For the sun’s descent / Another day / Gone up in smoke / What can I say / I already spoke.

I have all these ideas / But they don’t bloom when I plant them / It isn’t clear / If I should pursue them or abandon them

I’ve got so much that I want to say / I try to will it but the pen won’t obey / Looks like there’ll be no new song today.

I had to move on / Get a groove on / Put my shoes on / And walk away from the BLUNGE.

I try to be original, I try my own ways / But there’s no way to avoid plagiarism or clichés.

Metadiscourse is useless, but that’s all that’s left / Once the muse has flown and left me bereft.

What’s going on? Where did all the inspiration go? What happened? What became of all the copious flow?

You can procrastinate but you can’t escape / This is the craft you’ve made your own.

A posthumous ‘conversation’ with Shlomo Carlebach, a/k/a Reb Shlomo, whose music I had been listening to since I was a young child.

Don’t philosophize, don’t editorialize, don’t formalize, just do it.