When the clock pushes close to four in the morn

...the house is dead like a mummy's tomb 

Yet secure and safe and comforting

...so like a mother's womb

You can hear the white sounds echo

...old house sounds in the night

It's often when the words flood my mind

...and I feel the urge to write

When the I'm at my camp in the mountain woods

...before my old wood stove

I may be reading by the kersone lantern

...just as one more page I turn

When I hear the wind's wild banshee roar

...see a blanket of snow outside

With pen and paper I begin to jot down words

...that break free to dawn's first light

Yes the camps my link to days gone by

...it's here I feel the urge to write

When I'm stradling a boulder, my private front row seat

...looking out in wonder at a Nova Scotia beach

The whitecaps in the distance meet the waves below my feet

...and the world beyond the horizon seems so out of reach

The screeching gulls like messengers from above

...and I dig out my notepad to capture every sight

This is the office God provided

...it's here I feel the urge to write

When there I'm trying to do my day job

...with ringing phones attack my brain

My co-workers chatter endlessly

...and my boss is just a jerk

When I'm knee deep doing paperwork

...though I've tried with all my might

I set up a blank page I can minimize

...it's there I feel the urge to write

When the magic hits me and it comes down to the wire

...writers have comfort zones they find

The world of reality won't stop the flow

...of the magic in their mind

So it doesn't matter where, or when or how

...or if the room is dark or bright

When the heart and brain collide with words

...that's when I feel the urge to write.

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