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Oh Vera, I can't complain but
When, when will you write?
This city is strange
And strangely bright
Sooner or later I'll change
Oh Vera, my cough is silent
And Sunset is setting up fine
There's work for me here
And here is my work
While we wait for my lungs to dry
Oh Vera, tonight I'm lost
What makes me live for this craft?
I'm going nowhere
My music's a bust
Even our neighbours just laugh
Oh Vera, we must see a film
I think that it might change my life
Something with Garland
Who's down on her luck
The kind of picture I like
Oh Vera, I'm full of it now
Who knew that notes could be fun?
I'm counting to twelve
And then back to one
I feel I'm a writer again
Oh Vera, I'm truly content
I'm waiting alone for a friend
A helluva poet
A Hollywood type
Who turns up the words on their end
Oh Vera, I'm reading the news
I can do nothing but cry
The opera was summer
An apple just fell
It's funny how well poets lie

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