Tearing up inside,
tearing up,
with under your chin a yellow buttercup,
a yellow buttercup,
that you hold in your left hand as you stand on the lawn,
amidst the grass where you look forlorn,
and you,
you begin crying your eyes out before me,
a young girl in the summertime,
with a love gone wrong,
but what am I to do,
because I am your younger brother,
and I do not know the complexities of love yet,
and of love I have no clue,
and as you cry upon the lawn, I ask you what is wrong,
and you just shake your head and cry,
and will not tell me why,
but I empathise with you,
and I hug you briefly but that is all that you allow,
and I stand there watching you some more,
and taking it all in,
and it seems only mother can help you now,
and I do not where she is as you cry,
and all I can do is sigh,
because of love I have no clue,
no clue of romantic love,
but what a to do,
as there before me you stand,
with a yellow buttercup that you hold in your left hand,
and a tissue you or two,
and putting on quite a show,
crying and blowing your nose seemingly endlessly now,
and I wish I could help but I do not know how,
and all I can do is stand there and watch,
because that is all that you will allow,
as you cry and scowl,
and stand there with a yellow buttercup under your chin,
and begin sobbing,
and oh, I wish I could help you, but I do not know how.
