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Description
you are nothing to write home about,
but my mother gets worried if i take too long between letters
she worries that i'm dead, and i don't want to tell her
about the rats or the screams or all my dead friends
so i am writing home about you

and i told her about your smile
and now she thinks i'm in love with you
you are nothing to write home about
except perhaps the way i can always hear your laughter
even over the bombs
and i have heard nothing but bombs for months
and your laughter is a welcome change

and you are no different than anyone else
same look in your eyes after going up top
same shake in your hands when the bombs start to drop
and you are nothing to write home about
but neither is the rain or the mud or the barbed wire

and my mother thinks i'm in love with you
and my brother thinks i want to fuck you
and it's not my fault that you have a jawline
like michelangelo sculpted it with careful hands and weeks of his time
it's not my fault i have nothing better to write home about
and my mother thinks i should tell you
and my brother thinks i should kiss you
and you are nothing to write home about

except perhaps the way you still smile in your sleep
and you have the singing voice of an angel
and you don't pray to anyone but your mother
even when all we can see is smoke
and all we can taste is smoke
and all we can breathe is smoke

and it might not even be smoke, it might be gas
maybe that's what dying feels like
maybe it's not tunnels or gates or falling asleep
maybe it's choking on smoke

and speaking of dying
they say the war will be over by christmas
and i don't know if i believe them
but i know it doesn't matter
because we'll be over by christmas
and it won't matter if the war doesn't follow our good example

you'll be dead by christmas
and i won't have anything to write home about
but the rats and the rain and the smoke
but i won't write home anyway
because i'll be dead by christmas

and then my mother will worry
and then my mother will cry
and my mother thinks i'm in love with you
she thinks i should tell you

she thinks that even though you're a man and i'm a man
and both of us are boys, really
boys who'll be dead by christmas
she thinks that we'll be dead by christmas
and we might as well make the most of things

you're nothing to write home about
except that you're everything to write home about
and my mother's right, i'm in love with you
and we'll both be dead by christmas
and i can always hear your laughter, even over the bombs
and my brother's right, i should kiss you
can i kiss you?

Description
you are nothing to write home about,
but my mother gets worried if i take too long between letters
she worries that i'm dead, and i don't want to tell her
about the rats or the screams or all my dead friends
so i am writing home about you

and i told her about your smile
and now she thinks i'm in love with you
you are nothing to write home about
except perhaps the way i can always hear your laughter
even over the bombs
and i have heard nothing but bombs for months
and your laughter is a welcome change

and you are no different than anyone else
same look in your eyes after going up top
same shake in your hands when the bombs start to drop
and you are nothing to write home about
but neither is the rain or the mud or the barbed wire

and my mother thinks i'm in love with you
and my brother thinks i want to fuck you
and it's not my fault that you have a jawline
like michelangelo sculpted it with careful hands and weeks of his time
it's not my fault i have nothing better to write home about
and my mother thinks i should tell you
and my brother thinks i should kiss you
and you are nothing to write home about

except perhaps the way you still smile in your sleep
and you have the singing voice of an angel
and you don't pray to anyone but your mother
even when all we can see is smoke
and all we can taste is smoke
and all we can breathe is smoke

and it might not even be smoke, it might be gas
maybe that's what dying feels like
maybe it's not tunnels or gates or falling asleep
maybe it's choking on smoke

and speaking of dying
they say the war will be over by christmas
and i don't know if i believe them
but i know it doesn't matter
because we'll be over by christmas
and it won't matter if the war doesn't follow our good example

you'll be dead by christmas
and i won't have anything to write home about
but the rats and the rain and the smoke
but i won't write home anyway
because i'll be dead by christmas

and then my mother will worry
and then my mother will cry
and my mother thinks i'm in love with you
she thinks i should tell you

she thinks that even though you're a man and i'm a man
and both of us are boys, really
boys who'll be dead by christmas
she thinks that we'll be dead by christmas
and we might as well make the most of things

you're nothing to write home about
except that you're everything to write home about
and my mother's right, i'm in love with you
and we'll both be dead by christmas
and i can always hear your laughter, even over the bombs
and my brother's right, i should kiss you
can i kiss you?