Minstrel With The Mandolin

Sharp ears are listening in to our love,
Trying to decipher our memories,
And singing their songs of the wood,
To be lost in a foggy mystery.
But the minstrel with the mandolin,
Sings our song of truth on the wind,
In the ballad fashion of ancient times,
To leave the sharp ears listening, far behind.

The balladeers on the radio waves,
Can't match the minstrel with the mandolin,
When they sing their false words of love,
To appease sharp ears as they listen in,
Trying to find Cupid's fiery arrow,
They're way ahead in dreams of tomorrow,
A beat ahead of the beat to follow,
With their epic ballads of impending sorrow.

For true love is sung by a quire of angels,
And heard only by the ears of true lovers.
The songs of the minstrel with the mandolin,
Will always allude the sharp ears of others.
So keep the minstrel's ballad in your memory,
And I'll sing his song to remember thee,
And the angels quire will forever be,
Etched in the hearts of you and me.