It used to be that I’d write a song
For the sake of it or to sing along
I’d glorify the ones I knew
And where I’d been or the things I’d do
But all they were were empty words
Just futile hopes and wasted verse
Talk is cheap and poems less
It’s all just never ending tackiness
So I won’t write a song for you
I don’t want to cheapen this emotion
When they ask what this is I’ll just call it a fish
From a far off and tide-turning ocean
It used to be I’d write a song
But even if I had another tongue
Or fifty more then it would be too few
To sing all the things I think of you.