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Why wait for life to happen, |
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when right before our eyes |
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blind fate unwraps its patterns? |
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I just said "See you soon". |
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My piano was in tune |
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when you walked out of the room. |
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It felt like any normal Friday. |
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At concert pitch, 440 |
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the pressure's many tons; |
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the weight of life befalls me. |
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I wish I could pretend |
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my piano's on the mend. |
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You treated it like a friend, left it to settle down over the weekend. |
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You've got a ticket on the terraces for the game on Saturday |
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and afterwards you might go for a beer. |
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On Sunday afternoon you'll take the family to the park |
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and later, when it's getting dark |
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you'll say "We've still got that old spark", |
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you'll say "Oh, aren't we just so lucky to be here..." |
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So stupid and so senseless... |
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Sometimes we're pulled up short, quite shockingly defenceless. |
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I don't know what to do: my piano's out of tune... |
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it's not as if I can assume that it's ever going to get any better now. |
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A liquid lunch appointment when the working week is done, |
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there's time for one more just before he goes. |
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A quick glance at the watch and now it's time to head for home. |
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And so it's goodbye to the ladies, |
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grabs the keys to his Mercedes, |
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thinking "Maybe I should get a cab...". |
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But no. |
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Blind drunk, he met you head on. |
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On a normal Friday afternoon. |
