The boy threw his guitar down and started beating his brow.
No matter how hard he tried he couldn't justify
all the wasted time spent inventing words and rhyme
as the stars and the planets and the clock did lapse

You see making up songs is for losers
I should build something she uses,
like a box or a bed or cupboards or shelves.
'cause songs are made of air,
they can't be any use to her.
Better off trying to catch falling aeroplanes

Yep.

Then girl said "Boy don't be so stupid,
boy don't be so daft, you're not even right by half.
And although you say your songs are fundamentally air
there's also thousands of vibrations that stimulate the ear
in such a way that whenever I hear them
they always make me smile.
They're just as tactile
as a box or a bed or cupboards or shelves.
So boy now stop your moping
your cursing and no hoping
and get back in the saddle."

While she was still speaking,
towards his fears reaching,
where lay his guitar?
His head was swimming in an alphabet soup
letters swirling, words formed in his heart.

He said, "I'm gonna build a song for us
with four verses and a chorus,
on real estate your words inspired.
And there we'll live rent free,
sleep on beds of melody
and leave the key change with the seasons."

And so that song he built was hers,
with a chorus and four verse,
and she woke to find him finally asleep.