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. . . .
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.
I do my best to obey all your wishes.
I put a sign up, think,
now I got to buy us a new set of dishes,
or wash the ones that have piled in the sink.
Nothin' else for me to say,
and so I'll close. Oh, by the way,
everybody's thinkin' of you.
P.S. I love you.
Nothing else to tell you, dear.
Except, each day feels like a year.
Every night I'm dreamin' of you.
P.S. I love you.
P.S. I love you.
Johnny Mercer (1909-1976)
