I heard she sang a good song,
I heard she had a style,
And so I came to see her,
To listen for a while . . .
And there she was this young girl,
A stranger to my eyes . . .
Strummin’ my pain with her fingers,
Singin’ my life with her words,
Killing me softly with her song,
Killing me softly, with her song,
Telling my whole life with her words,
Killing me softly, with her song . . .
I felt all flushed with fever,
Embarrassed by the crowd,
I felt she found my letters,
And read each one aloud . . .
I prayed that she would finish,
But she just kept right on . . .
Strummin’ my pain with her fingers,
Singin’ my life with her words,
Killing me softly with her song,
Killing me softly, with her song,
Telling my whole life with her words,
Killing me softly, with her song . . .
She sang as if she knew me,
In all my dark despair,
And then she looked right through me,
As if I wasn’t there . . .
But she was there, this stranger,
Singing clear and strong . . .
Strummin’ my pain with her fingers,
Singin’ my life with her words,
Killing me softly with her song,
Killing me softly, with her song,
Telling my whole life with her words,
Killing me softly, with her song . . .
Killing me softly, with her song . . .
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