But when the group finished the song they gave me a series of high fives and welcomed me to the world of hard rock. The decimal level was that of a Super Bowl game. They rehearsed my song and as I expected, I couldn’t understand a single word they were singing. She brought in an acid rock band and ran through some arrangements. This young lady was my ticket out of shuffleboard and ennui. I had spent countless hours probing the universe and experiencing heartbreak to come up with just the right words to usher in my golden age as a hard rock lyricist. I didn’t care if the music didn’t sound like “That Old Black Magic” so long as someone, anyone, recognized the brilliance and originality of my lyrics. It sounded like an exploding washing machine – clothes and all. I showed her my lyrics and she said that she didn’t care what the words meant so long as she could put music to them. She worked by day as a waitress and hung around recording studios in her spare time to find the right lyrics to inspire her. They said that she’s a budding music genius looking for that one big hit to launch her career. She was referred to me by my neighbor’s grandchildren once they agreed to critique my lyrics. She was all of 20 years old with stringy hair and an old guitar. I walked into a recording studio with my new lyrics and found someone who could pair music to my lyrics.
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