This pen it is my weapon, I wield it as a sword,
This paper is a canvas, for words I’m certain to record.
This desk it has a purpose, to hold me in my place,
This day is unlike others, I no longer see your face?

My sadness grows provoking, and it pulls me from the light,
My happiness has left me lonely, as has my aging sight.
My fingers now they pain me when the morning birds they sing
My worry grows heavy, when the telephone won’t ring

My heart it beats much slower, and my rhythm’s lost a beat,
My ankles they are swollen, and my legs and are my feet.
My head has become muddled, and my face it wears a frown
And despite this dose of pity, I will turn my life around.

Because I may be older, and wearing clothes my granny wore,
I want to ask a favour that I hope you can’t ignore.
Your voice it summons memories, I feel them in my soul
Wrap me in your thoughts, your mind can make me whole?