They put this microphone in front of me and it makes me want to speak. I don't sing, I just speak. She sings cuz she's the one with the underground spring.

They put this microphone in front of me and it makes me want to speak, write you a letter, roll up my sleeves, these sleeves with the hearts sewn on, like the blush on a girl's cheek, she's got a crush on something.

They put this microphone in front of me and I look at you while this music gets itself laid out, (and I usually have my eyes closed), but I ask myself why it's so hard not to look at you tonight, it's not supposed to be so hard. But I feel butterfly wings inside and I don't sing, I just speak. She sings cuz she's the one with the underground spring.

They put this microphone in front of me and I close my eyes and I see you and we're young and there's still time and we're out here, yes we are, and it's like learning to ride a bike together for the first time across the sky, hold on, don't look down, look, no hands.

They put this microphone in front of me and it's a story problem, remember story problems? It's a story problem because as usual, I don't have much of anything to say. But I ask myself, What must I do to make my life a true story?

They put this microphone in front of me and it makes me want to speak. I don't sing, I just speak. She sings cuz she's the one with the underground spring.

. . .

copyright 2000, Linford Detweiler