Sitting alone in the dark of the stadium
He whispers his secrets into a cheap guitar
With the flick of his wrist he turns words into melodies
Chords into church bells that fill up the alleys where
Lovers entwine in the heat of the night
And by dawn are apart in the shivering silences
We will pretend
That it's all just made up

The songs that he writes
Are too personal
He cant play them for anyone

When he's all alone, the lovesong writer sings,
"Oooh-ooooh
Can anyone hear me now?"
But no one hears him now
So he stumbles through syllables, cut from their sentences
Lost letters call to him, deep in the alphabet
"Please give us meaning"

(and the lovesong writer replies)
"Pose for me now
You're the broken heart
You're the sigh in the back of the throat
And on the other side
You're the queen of spades
You're the sound that she makes on her way"
(there's always a way out)

When hes all alone, the lovesong writer sings
Ooooh
Can anyone, hear me now?
But no one hears at all
The lovesong writer sits all alone
When he hears the sound of the knock at the door

(and as he stands to answer it, the lights flicker the door opens on...)

Fifty red roses falling apart
In the hands of someone that you scripted and left behind.
All of the others, scorned by their lovers showed up at your door
Staring you down, they said:

"Sing for me, sing for me, sing for me now
Sing for me, sing for me, sing for me now"
there's no way out