19 June 2012
Your skinny waste my hands will grip, I'll brace my palms against your hips and lift you up to the fading sun.
Soak it up into your skin, lets shoot some pool I'll let you win. It's getting late so I guess we'll run.
I pick the flower out your hair and pluck the petals til it's left bare, I'll leave a fresh one on your car.
You left your friends who live in soho and made big plans to make it solo, you can sing and I'll play my guitar.
Pencil's short you write too much, and you sing words that grip and touch.... My heart and soothe my soul.
The guys in suits they like your songs, on MTV's where they belong. I'm proud of you, I wish you well.
But now they say you're slightly controversial, they'll change the words so they're commercial. Tell them to go to hell.
Forget them dorks I'll write with you, and we'll make songs we know are true. The game we'll rearrange.
For fifty weeks you disappeared and swapped your style and dyed your hair. Oh sweetheart how you've changed.
You would'nt sell out, or so you swore. Now you make songs that bug and bore... My head and break my heart.
Your face I no longer recognise, or you hollow words and subtle lies. You make plastic art.
Don't get me wrong I still wish you well. But I'll guard my soul and never sell... For fame or a paper wage.
You say you think it's time I changed, embrace the new pathetic age...
But I'll stay here Just the same
I'll clap for you When you're on stage.
B's Song. • Opuss № I