falter brown cardigan boy he whispers quiet like a creaking door which folds whispers quiet like his verse little strings little blur like everyday we live but did he ever know? who are you john samson to talk to one like me to sing your songs and look that way to hold those hearts and let them fall everybody's expecting something does it always end this way? cause you know you've got a lot to lose or maybe we don't all hold that view but who knows what the days will bring do you want to figure out? and where'd you ever find such words which tell tales on and push dreams out and maybe john samson i'll buy you a notebook a good one with the stitch bound spine and fill it up with leaves and string and little poems or smells of earth cause i know you'd like to know and i know you need that too but who ever said we couldn't be like the folds of flannel on that bed i really need to hold that hand that shakes with that blue pen and scribbles down his lyrics on the corners of napkins or telephone books in telephone booths when you get bored i'm sure you watch the world pass by and i'm sure you love the way it all unfolds like this giant slideshow from some fairy tale but what if the shovels never rang or the snow never fell what if we lost that mossy tone to attic books and yellowed letters would everything be lost with out this new found joy in simple things would everything be gone? i'm addressing you john samson, who were you to tell these things and write such words that touch more softer than the summer grass and lighter than that breeze yes who were you to sing such songs and tell the sun to sink i want to know just what to say but every time i go to speak you own breath makes me falter so tell me now, john samson that everything's okay and that the autumn will never come and that summer is the time when we cut the deck and carve the knives which sharpen plans and truths are told for good but tell the wind not to blow so sad and the windows not to fade cause i can feel tomorrow closing in with a shadow cool and dark and there's nothing more to fear than to hear your voice cease its singing and bocome crushed in the memory of this song 010302 ... dean-bean Too bad I'm too chickenshit. I'd do a lot more and type a lot less. Well, I got off on the right foot this morning. We'll see what happens, yeah? 010330 what's it to you? who go blather from