It seems my fantasies of you
are the acts of escapism.
It seems those feignings
almost came true
the night I dialed the wrong number
and heard a song being sung

But the words didn't rhyme
and the tune wasn't true.
His guitar was shot
and his voice was slew
but everytime he hit that chord
and the bluesman sang "oh lord!"
I hit the ground
and wasn't found
until the daylight shone through.

So sitting in my bed at night
and writing to you a letter too true
I know you'll never read these words
and wonder if somehow, still
you know

that although your song wasn't so kind,
and now that night is far behind
these things echo in small towns
where hidden feilds hold the sounds
you whispered to me
and showed to me.