I tend to think of all my love,
When a rock ballad plays.
First I think of you,
Six months for Sixpence,
Maybe we weren't ready for each other,
Maybe we weren't supposed to meet.
Then I think of her,
How there isn't a star left that's as stunning,
As you were to me.
I'm so sorry,
That I was never ready,
Never was I trying to be a heartbreaker;

I'm just a growing boy.