Sing with me softly, I’m feeling alone.
If I could only hear once more your song
If you remember, just whisper the words.
But I sing solo. I sing for what’s gone.
Pour me a whisky, a Talisker fine,
Bring me another glass of blood-red wine.
We would be silly; play poker with friends.
Your glass stays empty. And my throat is dry.
Put out an album: this
could be the one!
Argue with agents, bands spending vast sums,
Fix up the tour bus with new DVDs.
Drive down to London. But nobody comes.
Years fall so swiftly: our dog days are brief.
Play them out wisely, make mad memories.
One day we all die. It’s time when it’s time.
And we leave only songs sung soft in dreams.
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