Still Here

what is there to write? what is there to say?
same things happen everyday, not a thing to write, not a thing to say,
so I take my pen in hand and start the same old way.

dear, I thought I'd drop a line, the weather's cool, the folks are fine,
I'm in bed each night at nine, P.S. I love you.

yesterday we had some rain, but all in all, I can't complain,
was it dusty on the train, P.S. I love you.

write to the browns just as soon as you're able,
they came around to call, and I burned a hole in the dining room table,
and let me see, I guess that's all.

nothing else for me to say, and so I'll close but by the way,
everybody's thinking of you, P.S. I love you.

I do my best to obey all your wishes, I put a sign "think"
but I gotta buy us a new set of dishes, or wash the ones that are piled in the sink.

nothing else to tell you dear, except each day seems like a year,
every night I'm dreaming of you, P.S. I love you.

-Frank Sinatra