Isn't it funny how when one wants to right a love song,
One tries to stray from the cliches.
But unfortunately for us all there's just nothing left to say.

And because of this of course,
The same verse, same bridge, same chorus,
Has been written over a thousand times again.
But they are not to blame,
That each song, prose, poem is the same,
They are not to be blamed.

All the best poets are dead,
There's nothing left to be said.
How can I express how I feel for her,
When Byron has already put it better.

Should I write her a letter?
No I'll just regret it when she finds,
The lines were born from another man's mind not mine.
Should I write her a letter?
No I'll just regret it when she finds the lines,
Were born from a more eloquent man's mind not mine.

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