I remember this.
This is an Old Song.
I’ve heard it a million times,
Everything but the chorus is forgotten.
And I sing along,
Mumbling to the rest.
Until now, none of the words made
Any kind of cerebral sense.
The artist is now homeless.
The named studio is now deserted.
But right now,
This old song is on the radio.
I can translate it for a moment,
Stop and listen, though it’s slow.
I take it in,
Line by line, word for word.
But then it hits me,
Perhaps not every word is sincere.
Perhaps this song was made
So it could be sold and overheard.
So it would be pleasant to the ear.
But what does that make me?
I heard it, and believed it was real.
Not telling the real from the fake.
But I hit replay,
Because at least the Old Song is familiar.
At least I won’t need a new set of words.
Never say never, because you’ve only got one chance.
But I say never when I know
The fight ain’t worth the go.
And I’ve given too many chances
And spared far too many glances.
This Old Song suddenly means less.
And makes less sense.
But I tap my foot to the marchman’s rhythm,
And I hit replay.
Simply for old time’s sake,
Seems to be done simply for old time’s sake.