The Photograph
RICK SPRINGFIELD
Hands old and poor, her back bent and sore,
She lifts from the drawer,
The photograph.
Though tattered and torn, through years it has worn,
But still bears the form of the man she knew.
Her eyes are weak, spilling tears on her cheek.
Her lips start to speak to the photograph.
She tells him with pride, she still loves him inside.
Though years ago died, la da da da...
And all of the people she knew,
Those who don't know the score say,
We wonder why, she never married,
Such a pretty girl she was, such a lovely face she had,
Such a pretty thing she was...
She turns to her right, to put out the light,
And wishes goodnight to
The photograph.
Her love, though it's strong and lasted this long,
And goes on and on
She's still alone.