now the oak trees a swaying in the early autumn breeze, the golden sun is shining on my face, tangled thoughts i hear the mocking bird sing, this old world really aint that bad a place, oh, theres no comprehending, and who am i to try judge or explain, but i do have one burning question. who told you life wasn't worth the fight? they were wrong, they lied, now you're gone and we cry, its not like you walk away in the middle of a song, your song, your beautiful song.