"I found your diary underneath the treeAnd started reading about meThe words she'd written took me by surpriseYou'd never read them in her eyes,They said that she had found,The love she'd waited for."
"I found your diary underneath the tree,And started reading about me,The words began to stick,And tears to flow,Her meaning now was clear to see,The love she'd waited for was someone else not me."
Nobody remembers Bread and nobody thinks Phil Collins is cool. But that's often the path for art when it's true. It misses out on the public consciousness or it gets adored secretly in the bedrooms of the broken-hearted.