Our speech it falls into a pattern
And meaning it falls by the wayside.
And I hear the rhythm of your words, dear,
But not what you actually mean.
And you've asked for a second opinion,
But I'm not sure that I have an answer.
Your patterns of old you've forsaken,
Your new ones scarce solid you make.
And you've asked me to give you my blessing
As you wander off in new directions.
But I just don't know what to say, dear,
And that is the end of the road.