You can’t sing the blues in an air conditioned room.
You can’t sing about how far down you are from the penthouse.

You have to go there to know there.
You have to be it to see it.

You can’t sing the blues from an air conditioned room.

It’s too comfy, to cozy to know,
how bad it really could be.
It’s too pretty, to pleasant
to say anything useful to me.

(With credit to Lloyd at work for the first line.)