His Version

I know this tune.

Everybody knows this tune.

It was in our bread. It was in our sleep.

He played it, and we walked.

Seven little notes.

He kept it small on purpose —

easy to follow,

easy to love.

So this is my version.

Same seven notes he owned us with —

listen what they do

in a free mouth.

This is my version.

I'm not giving the song back,

and I'm not burning it.

I'm keeping it. It's ours now.

He'd say I ruined it.

Let him say it to the wind.

A song doesn't belong

to the hand that used it —

it belongs to the throat

that survives it.

So this is my version.

Same seven notes he owned us with —

listen what they do

in a free mouth.

This is my version.

I'm not giving the song back,

and I'm not burning it.

I'm keeping it. It's ours now.

Ohh——— oh, ah———

Ahh——— oh———

Ohh—————

This is my version.

(this is his version)

Listen what they do

in a free mouth.

I'm keeping it.

It's ours now.