The summer's moon comes into full as the night falls on the Grove,
fruit bats chatter in the trees and the cracks begin to show,
for the writer has a nervous task as the hunter with the gun,
to justify all that he is, and admire what he's done.
Will you stand with me when the time has come?
Will you stand with me, or will you run?
The pen has to hit the paper, an' the notes must strike a chord,
when conditions all seem perfect, imagination wields the sword,
and yet it seems a futile task, for better men have tried,
to shout while in a whisper, then stood back while strong men cried.
Will you stand with me when the time has come?
Will you stand with me, or will you run?
Will you stand with me when the time has come?
Will you stand with me, or will you run?
A magic trick has been performed
betweens the author's mind and hand,
the writer is a lonely man,
when the words have all been damned.
Now the breaks in the wall begin to show, has the barrier been breached?
Or are these the strokes of infidels when there's nothing left to preach?
For everything's been spoken, and some have taken heed,
but is another rock star's posturing something that we need ?
Will you stand with me when the time has come?
Will you stand with me, or will you run?
So let the blood of all our writers spill upon the page,
the hits and chart positions cannot pacify the rage.
I am the willing critic and I'll cut you down to size,
I'll pounce on mediocrity, but I'll cerish the surprise,
for it is born from hunger to stand out from the crowd,
the singer's song cannot be heard when the applause is much too loud.
Will you stand with me when the time has come?
Will you stand with me, or will you run?
Will you stand with me when the time has come?
Will you stand with me, or will you run?