In a cold November, she paints a warm December.
She starts to soak her paintbrush, won't catch her wearing makeup.

The saddest things, all the canvas she paints,
And writes folk songs, but everything is wrong.
I'll just make her into something great.
She's an art type, I served a little purpose, I've just barely scratched the surface.

She would spy the window where inspiration can't flow,
Potential she may not know, but she's a virtual picasso.

She makes my face, she leaves without a trace,
We both know she can't stay in one place.
Cause this romance, we sketched out in one night.
She's an art type, she keeps her feelings bottled, now they're coming out full throttle.

Maybe someday, she'll put her hard work on display,
(The saddest things,)
in a gallery,
(All the canvas she paints.)
oh...
(Writes folk songs,)
for all the world to see,
(But everything is wrong.)
she's alone, but...
I'll just make her into something great,
She's an art type, I'm left with this family, a picture of what could be...