Flowers, moonlight, sticky thingsnSongs that mean nothing, places I've beennBlood fruit, crying, old guitar stringsnThey're all softly poetic, smoothly obscenennWhen I use the word YounI don't know who I meannIf this song was a paintingnIt would be velveteennWhen I use the word YounI don't know who I meannIf this song was a paintingnIt would benVelveteennnI recall all those wasted snowflakes dying in the fallnAnd I remember those starry eyes, rose glasses bewitch me, saw thatnOur words and our bodies will always flow, like thenCool, clear stream on the rocks belownnWhen I use the word YounI don't know who I meannIf this song was a paintingnIt would be velveteennWhen I use the word YounI don't know who I meannIf this song was a paintingnIt would benVelveteennnWe sat on the beach at night, and it shone fantasticnAnd the lake after dark looks like, looks like burn plasticnWe all need a space to fall down and grownAnd it's so sickly-sweet like some bad T.V. shownnWhen I use the word YounI don't know who I meannIf this song was a paintingnIt would be velveteennWhen I use the word YounI don't know who I meannIf this song was a paintingnIt would benVelveteennnForgot that we used to saynWe all learn to fly some daynI thought that was a (?)nBut I was wrong