he was a songwriter, writing songs about a girl, she was a ghostwriter, lying to the world, in deep anticipation, of the day that she had written, and by her own admission, she'd be picked up, kissed and twirled, he was a fearful boy, watchful of the earth, worried that it might split apart, and he wouldn't even hear it first, he'd be caught in some position, like a broken, old physician, and worst of all he feared that it would hurt, he's poured his heart out, is nothin' gonna come of that, so when can he finally say, at last, at last, at last, at last, oh, i thought you'd never ask, oh, seven hundred letters, she catalogued them all, dated them and numbered them, and then hid them down below, she would always keep 'em, once a year would read them, each time she'd be thinkin', somehow, he must know, she's poured her heart out, is nothin' gonna come of that, so when can she finally say, at last, at last, at last, at last, oh, i thought you'd never ask, outside of his apartment, the night was blanketed in mist, she stood lookin' up at his light, and thinking' what it meant, it meant that he was in there breathing, what was it he was thinking, it was of her she wished, she wished, they're pourin' their hearts out, is nothin' gonna come of that, so when can they finally say, at last, at last, at last, at last, oh, i thought you'd never ask, at last, at last, at last, oh, i thought you'd never ask
