I thought I might compose a little song
That kept the truth of words within its tune
When tunes and words collide, the truth is wrong
And what was once too late is now too soon
I understood the meaning of the note
The one you slipped beneath my lyric door
Each word I only found I thought I wrote
Each word revealed a shabby metaphor
Composed, I now compose with words, alone
Then if you must, sing out the words you see
It only sounds the way the wind has blown
And sounds a lot like hollow reverie
The truth you sing is clearly in the wrong
Each word, each note, includes my little song.