Twelve Twenty Seven

Play the violin with your vein-crossed wrists
But only with your fingers, you always make a list
Of things you've been told and things you say
That wouldn't and couldn't work out anyway

A smile crosses your soft pink lips
You're not dying, but theres thing you could fix
No, not a front, not a disguise
But the mounting problems grow in size

The thoughts you think just don't make sense
Times running out and you're getting tense
When you're all by yourself, what's to do?
When you're all by yourself and theres no one to woo.