What is there to write, what is there to say?
/ Same things happen ev'ry day;
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;
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,