He writes what he’s seen, what
He’s observed and
Puts it all in prose, distilled now
It ferments a little and
Picks up a heady, full flavour
Of guitar, piano and tambourine.
The song is born, aged
Until it sounds right,
Done only when satisfaction
Greets him with a shy handshake,
He expresses what he feels
Through the beat of his soul.
Written in 1997 about Mad Anthony Wayne Waite.
As I recall, I watched him writing the song above.