E
Well, it's three in the mornin', should be sleepin' in my bedroom
A
Not sittin' in this cellar like some silly damn mushroom
E B
My brain is hurtin', I think it just blew a fuse
E
I've smoked enough cigarettes to kill a camel
A
Drunk enough black coffee to fill the English Channel
E B E
And oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues
[Verse 2]
E
I've been writin' this song for what seems like forever
A
Doin' bad things to my lungs and worse things to my liver
E B
I ain't got many organs left I can abuse
E
I'm gonna try to stop writin' songs, I swear
A
Do somethin' easy like wrestlin' grizzly bears
E B E
And oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues
[Bridge]
A
Oh, Mama, why didn't I listen to you
E
When you told me not to be a musician
A
Oh, Mama, at least I didn't shame you completely
B
And become a politician
[Verse 3]
E
Havin' trouble with my meter, and trouble with my rhymin'
A
I wish to God that I was Paul Simon
E B
That little smartass has more talent than he can use
E
I try to write my songs deep and esoteric
A
But they just come out the same old Eric
E B E
And oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues
[Verse 4]
E
And if I finish this song, who'll appreciate it?
A
I know the critics are gonna hate it
E B
They'll roast me like a lamb chop at a bar-b-que
E
They'll all say, "He's a one-hit wonder
A
Written nothin' since 'The Band Played Waltzin' Matilda' "
E B E
And oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues
[Bridge]
A E
And why do I write all my songs in the key of D?
A B
Why don't I try another one like -- umm-err-umm --
E
I think my mind's beginnin' to go
A
I just found myself wishin' I was Barry Manilow
E B E
Oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues
[Instumental]
E A E B E A E B E
[Bridge]
A E
And why do I torture myself the way that I do?
A B
Be easier bashin' my skull in with a lump of four-by-two
[Verse 5]
E
I've tried to sing this song in an American accent
A
I'm told my Scottish burr is too much of a distractment
E B
At least that's what they say in their reviews
E
And deejays dishin' out their music valium
A
Will say, "It's too long, son, it ain't got any drums"
E B E
And oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues
[Verse 6]
E
So I sit here like a dummy nearly crying with frustration
A
Songwritin's just an exercise in mental masturbation
E B
Deserted by that fickle jade they call the Muse
E
She's out there somewhere laughin' at me
A
Sayin', "Son, go back to accountancy!"
E B E
And oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues
[Outro]
E B E
Oh, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues
E B E
Yes, Mama, got them old songwritin' blues
