Weary and alone,
Savaged by the winds of time,
Burdoned with this state of mind,
Searching through a storm of stones, I am alone.
The melody takes you to the place the lyrics describe. If you write, you know what I mean, but if you don't write, you might not get how personal these lyrics can be. Hell, I raise cattle and hay (before the drought). I guess a cowboy can rhyme as good (or well) as a rapper.
Well, then we disagree. “Wind Beneath my Wings” is the epitome of pretentiousness to me, like, say, “Feelings”, or, better yet, “I (Who Have Nothing)” and “My Way”. Just the word “Wings” referring to oneself provokes the thoughts of insincerity, false loftiness, Thomas Kinkade, and so on (I’d better stop.)
But listen to Hal David’s lyrics to Bacharach’s tunes, or even Mick Jagger’s on his solo albums, who in my opinion is one of unappreciated lyricists. There are many others, and they are not on Broadway producing assembly line throw away word plays and cliched sentimental claptrap.
The kids in the cubicles of the Brill Building in the 60s wrote fresher lyrics than the Broadway hacks did then or now. Don’t Stephen Sondheim me!
Do wacka do, wacka do, so dang me!