They said he sang a good song,
They said he had a style,
And so I went to see him
And listen for a while.
And there he was, a young boy,
A stranger to my eyes,
Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his words,
Killing me softly with his song.

I felt all flushed with fever,
Embarrassed by the crowd.
I felt he'd found my letters
And read each one out loud.
I prayed that he would vanish,
But he just kept right on

Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his words,
Killing me softly with his song.

He sang as if he knew me
In all my dark despair,
And then he looked right through me
As if I wasn't there.
And he just kept on singing,
Singing clear and strong.

Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his words,
Killing me softly with his song.