The song meant nothing to me, but spilled brim-full of faint meaning to more attentive ears than my own.

The song meant nothing. While I stood bemused with my less than perfect pitch and my imperfected sense of rhythm, both played out imperfectly through my stubby finger tips.

The song meant nothing. I was only too aware of the thesaurus of love, but the language eluded me, all the more at the opening bars when it would have been most useful.

The song meant nothing and I resorted to the clumsy sign language of childlike affections and smoke signals signing hesitant expressions of late-conceived emotions.

The song meant nothing, its meaning remaining an octave beyond my range, stave after stave.

The song meant nothing, but still I sang.