Where's the pen to cross out all my mistakes
Where's the revised, rewritten hand typed, uncorrupted page
Where's the layout where it all makes sense
Where's the plot, the action, where's the suspense
Where's the hardback cover, and the swirly printed name
Where's the rough draft, where's the first time through
Where's the marks on the page, keeping me from you
Where's my letter to the editor saying I want out
Where’s the pretty pen, made to block this out
Where are the correction marks, fixing what I've done
Where's the hand typed pages, the final copy
Where's the printed version of the time that’s gone
Where's the keyboard when I'm ready to write
Where's the glow from the computer screen
Where's the writer at work on this masterpiece
Where do I fall into place, the words played out so easily
Where's my letter to the editor saying I want out?