All the words you say to me. Have music in them. All the sorrows and the joys like magnetism. And a selfish boy looks through a prism. And says what is. But never asks what isn't. But a voice contains many precious things. It laughs. And then it sings. And all the lies that we can tell. To our foolish selves. Maybe this is the love song that I refused to. Write her when I loved her like I used to. And I fear my heart may spin and fracture. Like tears of stone falling from a statue. But a voice contains all that's true and false. Then cries for someone else. And for some honest tenderness. So I must confess. All the words you say to me. Have music in them. All the sorrows and the joys like magnetism. And a selfish boy looks through a prism. And says what is.