The Lovesong Writer

Sitting alone in the dark of a stadium He whispers his secrets into a cheap guitar With the flick of his wrist he turns words into melodies Chords into church bells, fill up the allies Lovers intwine in the heat of the night And by dawn are apart in the shivering silences We will pretend That it's all just made up The songs that he writes Are too personal He can't play them for anyone When he's all alone, the lovesong writer sings Ooooh Can anyone hear me now? No one hears him now So he stumbles through syllables, cut from their sentences Lost letters call to him, deep in the alphabet "Please give us meaning" Pose for me now You're the broken heart You're the sigh in the back of the throat And on the other side You're the queen of spades You're the sound that she makes on her way There's always a way out There's always a way out When he's all alone, the lovesong writer sings Ooooh Can anyone hear me now? But no one hears at all The lovesong writer sits, all alone When he hears the sound of the knock at the door 50 red roses, falling apart In the hands of someone that you scraped in and left behind All of the others strolled up and showed up at your door Staring you down, they said: Sing for me, sing for me, sing for me now Sing for me, sing for me, sing for me now We already are