All alone upstairs

Sometimes there's cryingupstairs, a woman on her own. Sometimes she sings and sometimes she talks Or plays music best heard on an oldgrammophone And itvibrates down withthe thudswhen she walks But whenever she cries, that's when i'm lost for thoughts I look up at the ceiling, at all the old cracks I'm sure i see some of her tears, little sparkling dots Coming down the lampshade, leavingthin moistened tracks And i put out my hands hopingone might drip down Where i'd catchit and place it onto my lips To taste all the anguish inside which she drowns But i stare up inhopewhile that tear never drips Welli'm not the sort to go knocking on her door If i had words that could help her i'd give her a phone But there in her stockings anda puddle on the floor It's probably best if i leave her alone. mission_bob ...(c)March2010