Boy threw his guitar down and started beating his brow, no matter how hard
he tried he couldn't justify,
All that wasted time, spent inventing words and rhyme, as the stars and the
planets and the clock did laps.
You see making up songs is for losers, I should build something she uses, like a
box or a bed or cupboards or shelves.
Cause songs are made of air, they can't be any use to her, better off trying to
catch falling aeroplanes.
Then girl said boy don't be so stupid, boy don't be so daft, you're not even right
by half. And although you say your songs are fundamentally air, there's also
thousands of vibrations that stimulate the ear in such a way that every time I hear
them, they always make me smile, they're just as tactile as a box or a bed or
cupboards or shelves, so boy now stop your moping, your cursing and no-hoping
and get back in the saddle.
While she was still speaking, towards his feet he's reaching, where lay his guitar.
His head was swimming in the alphabet, soup letters swirled and words formed,
in his heart. He said
I'm going to build a song for us with four verses and a chorus, on real estate your
words inspired. And there we'll live rent free, sleep on beds of melody as the stars
and the planets and the clock do laps.
And so that song he built was hers, with a chorus and four verse, and she woke to
find him finally asleep.
This is a pretty simplified, one person playing, version of the song, but it still