The boy threw his guitar down and started beating his brow
|
No matter how hard he tried he couldn't justify
|
All the 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
|
|
Yeah
|
|
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 whenever 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 an alphabet soup
|
Letters swirled and words formed in his heart
|
|
He said "I'm gonna 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
|
And leave the key change with the seasons"
|
|
And so that song he built was hers
|
With a chorus and four verse
|
And she woke to find him finally asleep
|
|
-----------------
|
Falling Aeroplanes
|
Darren Hanlon |