|
Lyric provided by www.seekalyric.com |
He was a songwriter Writing songs about a girl She was a ghostwriter Lying to the world In deep anticipation Of a day that she had written And by her own admission She'd be picked up, kissed, and twirled He was a fearful boy Watchful of the earth Worried that it might split apart And he wouldn't even hear it first That he'd be caught in some position Like a broken old physician And worst of all He feared that it would hurt He's poured his heart out There's nothing more to come of that So when can he finally say At last, at last, at last, at last Oh I thought you'd never ask Oh, seven hundred letters She cataloged them all Dated them and numbered them And then hid them down below She would always keep 'em Once a year would read them Each time she'd be thinking Somehow he must know She's pouring her heart out There's nothing more to come of that So when can she finally say At last, at last, at last, at last Oh I thought you'd never ask Outside of his apartment And that it was blanketed in mist She stood looking up at his light And thinking what it meant And that he was in there breathing What it was that he was thinking It was of her, she wished, she wished They're pouring their hearts out There's nothing more to come of that So when can they finally say At last, at last, at last, at last Oh I thought you'd never ask Oh ask, oh ask and ask Oh I thought you'd never ask |