| I wish you’d walk in again
|
| Imagine if you just did
|
| I’d fill you in on the things you missed
|
| Oh sleepless night, a grown up man dressed in white
|
| Who I thought might just save your life
|
| But he couldn’t, so you died
|
| I don’t like it, now you’re dead
|
| It’s not the same when I scratch my own head
|
| I haven’t got the nails for it
|
| And I know that God doesn’t exist
|
| And all of the palaver surrounding it
|
| But I like to think you hear me sometimes
|
| So I reached for a borrowed fleece
|
| From my dad or from Denise
|
| Always trying to keep warm, when you’re the sun
|
| I sat with you beside your bed and cried
|
| For things that I wish I’d said
|
| You still had your nails red
|
| And if I live past 72, I hope I’m half as cool as you
|
| I got my pen and thought that I’d write
|
| A melody and line for you tonight
|
| I think that’s how I make things feel alright
|
| Made in my room, this simple tune
|
| Will always keep me close to you
|
| The crowds will sing their voices ring
|
| And it’s like you never left
|
| But I’m bereft you see
|
| I think you can tell
|
| I haven’t been doing too well |