October
Sunday 28 November 2010 photo 1/1
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there’s a kid in my town – abort 10 years old
with a heart of sheer gold though it may appear cold
his eyes are windows into a scarred mind
it’s safe to say this kid has seen some hard times
his clothes are dirty and so is his face
still with sparks in his eyes he tries to show us his ways
he’s got stories to tell that’ll teach us a thing or too
he’ll tell ‘em if you pay him – he’ll preach or just sing a tune
but nowadays customers are rare he’s figured
and feelings of anger and despair were triggered
still he’s patiently waiting for our minds to change
and all the other kids think he’s kind of strange
the way he’s talking to himself – scribbling letters in the dust
he stays the same when others think it’s better to adjust
his plan was to eat for the money he’d earn
if people show no respect they get none in return
so now there’s no turning back
like when you’ve broken a seal
he’d rather steal than beg these folks for a meal
he’s grown accustomed to jokes and sarcastic gags
he carries all of his belongings in a plastic bag
he tells himself not to lose hope and he’s trying
to sell his thoughts for pennies but nobody’s buying
they pay him no mind – they don’t know what they’re missing
he’s got stories to tell but nobody listens
never have I ever seen a kid with a sadder smile
makes me wonder what could possibly
have happened to that child …poor child
there’s a kid in my town – he’s got stories to tell
compared to his life yours’ as boring as hell
while you leave home every morning for your 9-5
this kid is working with his words to keep his mind alive
no one knows the story of his mother and father
maybe he’s willing to tell it if only someone would bother
it’s frightening – he’s writing like he never did before
his notebook’s got a grip of him – like he’s Sydney Orr
he tries to get your attention but it’s all in vain
caught without an umbrella in the pouring rain
but cold people bother him more than cold water
but not enough to keep him from exploring old borders
and forcing them forward to where no man’s gone before
he’s got stories to tell and he demands some reward
instead he’s ridiculed by most and spitted on by some
he led the way but people they just didn’t want to come
I know some of his stories – he’s told me quite a few
but they’re not meant for me to recite for you
ask him yourself ‘cause with no doubt
the stories are best heard from his own mouth
I admire the fire that is still in his eyes
a hero in a somewhat silly disguise
he knows the truth and he’s willing to die
he lives more in one day than you will in your lives
Henry Bowers - Stories for sale
with a heart of sheer gold though it may appear cold
his eyes are windows into a scarred mind
it’s safe to say this kid has seen some hard times
his clothes are dirty and so is his face
still with sparks in his eyes he tries to show us his ways
he’s got stories to tell that’ll teach us a thing or too
he’ll tell ‘em if you pay him – he’ll preach or just sing a tune
but nowadays customers are rare he’s figured
and feelings of anger and despair were triggered
still he’s patiently waiting for our minds to change
and all the other kids think he’s kind of strange
the way he’s talking to himself – scribbling letters in the dust
he stays the same when others think it’s better to adjust
his plan was to eat for the money he’d earn
if people show no respect they get none in return
so now there’s no turning back
like when you’ve broken a seal
he’d rather steal than beg these folks for a meal
he’s grown accustomed to jokes and sarcastic gags
he carries all of his belongings in a plastic bag
he tells himself not to lose hope and he’s trying
to sell his thoughts for pennies but nobody’s buying
they pay him no mind – they don’t know what they’re missing
he’s got stories to tell but nobody listens
makes me wonder what could possibly
have happened to that child …poor child
compared to his life yours’ as boring as hell
while you leave home every morning for your 9-5
this kid is working with his words to keep his mind alive
no one knows the story of his mother and father
maybe he’s willing to tell it if only someone would bother
it’s frightening – he’s writing like he never did before
his notebook’s got a grip of him – like he’s Sydney Orr
he tries to get your attention but it’s all in vain
caught without an umbrella in the pouring rain
but cold people bother him more than cold water
but not enough to keep him from exploring old borders
and forcing them forward to where no man’s gone before
he’s got stories to tell and he demands some reward
instead he’s ridiculed by most and spitted on by some
he led the way but people they just didn’t want to come
I know some of his stories – he’s told me quite a few
but they’re not meant for me to recite for you
ask him yourself ‘cause with no doubt
the stories are best heard from his own mouth
I admire the fire that is still in his eyes
a hero in a somewhat silly disguise
he knows the truth and he’s willing to die
he lives more in one day than you will in your lives
Henry Bowers - Stories for sale
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