The birds won’t sing their bittersweet songs
The rain won’t fall, the sun won’t shine
All my letters will be ‘returned to sender’
There will be no music to meet my ears, my heart
Our imperfections will be visible, naked
Now that you’re gone, laughter and cheer are things of the past
And the present is looking grim, oppressive
Now that you’re gone
what the heck, I don't know what I'm doing
