Ships will sail,

And trains will leave the station

Bound for Hell,

But I'll make my reservation

Might as well—

It's a minor variation . . .

 

It's six years to the day

Since we found that she was gone.

Hope's a game I dare not play

But I try to carry on.

When there’re no words left to pray,

I just count the stars till dawn,

And wonder which one she is on.

 

So here I stand with my head against the window,

Watching spring turn into summer into fall. . .

Sometimes I think about Alana,

Then, other days, I hardly cry at all.

 

How many years must fly

Before I find that something matters?

Stop the endless asking why

That leaves each day in tatters?

Can I ever say goodbye

Before the picture shatters?

 

-refrain-

 

And if I turned around to face the rising sun,

Untied the long, black ribbon from my heart,

Then found she was alive somewhere, in pain, alone, undone,

The shame would surely tear my soul apart. . .

 

Well, somewhere in the world

There’s a man who holds the answer;

He took my little girl –

I dare not think of what his plans were—

Somewhere he is eating breakfast

While it eats me like a cancer. . .!

 

So ships will sail,

And trains will leave the station

Bound for Hell,

But I'll make my reservation. . .

Might as well—

It's a minor variation. . .

Minor variation. . .

Minor variation. . .