Strumming my pain with his fingers
|
Singing my life with his words
|
Killing me softly with his song
|
Killing me softly with his song
|
Telling my whole life with his words
|
Killing me softly with his song
|
|
I heard he sang a good song, I heard he had a style
|
And so I came to see him, to listen for a while
|
And there he was, this young boy, a stranger to my eyes
|
|
Strumming my pain with his fingers
|
Singing my life with his words
|
Killing me softly with his song
|
Killing me softly with his song
|
Telling my whole life with his words
|
Killing me softly with his song
|
|
I felt all flushed with fever, embarassed by the crowd
|
I felt he'd found my letters and read each one out loud
|
I prayed that he would finish, but he just kept right on
|
|
Strumming my pain with his fingers
|
Singing my life with his words
|
Killing me softly with his song
|
Killing me softly with his song
|
Telling my whole life with his words
|
Killing me softly
|
|
He sang as if he knew me in all my dark despair
|
And then he looked right through me as if I wasn't there
|
But he was there, this stranger, singing clear and loud
|
|
Strumming my pain with his fingers
|
Singing my life with his words
|
Killing me softly with his song
|
Killing me softly with his song
|
Telling my whole life with his words
|
Killing me softly with his song
|
|
-----------------
|
Killing Me Softly With His Son
|
| Anne Murray |
