Torn From the Pages of My Heart
Got A Penny?
Where's that old man seated outside the church gate
thinned knees bent cripple upon a tiny, wheeled plank.
Do you have a coin? Would you share?
'Cause the only light he sees from murky eyes is
the shine in copper dimes. Just one coin. Another drink,
Another lifetime.
Have you watched the news on TV today? Who's dying,
and who's already dead? Who gets on those shimmering
international stages? Who's gaining, who's losing?
What's the best fist fighter up to next, who is leaving
Who has been left? Would it matter to those
who got no spare robes, whose lives are in a pendulum?
Perhaps a fleeting escape is worth a penny of
the glamour bandage singing our trampled brothers and
sisters a tune.
And so I'm reminded of that old man who used hands as his
feet, carving the road just outside the church gate,
begging for a tiny piece of the spare in the fortune we make.
It's been so long, I was on toddler feet, tottering, chattering...
I was a mighty chirp. I saw that man and thought his little bench
looked fun. He must enjoy speeding down in every brief slopes
under the cheerful sun. In my mind he was performing
for a crowd. Now my ignorance has long been
drowned by a conscience so loud. What fun is there to wear
clothing that strips your self-respect bare? What fun... is there
when you beg for life as you still the gusts from your breath...
as you try to delay your churning hunger? What fun... is there...
to ride free-wheeling upon that stage of rolling wheels you
found from a trash. It's your only home, and it has no walls.
But it's the only thing you got that you can call your own,
save for thinning flesh and bones, beneath equally thinning clothes.
thinned knees bent cripple upon a tiny, wheeled plank.
Do you have a coin? Would you share?
'Cause the only light he sees from murky eyes is
the shine in copper dimes. Just one coin. Another drink,
Another lifetime.
Have you watched the news on TV today? Who's dying,
and who's already dead? Who gets on those shimmering
international stages? Who's gaining, who's losing?
What's the best fist fighter up to next, who is leaving
Who has been left? Would it matter to those
who got no spare robes, whose lives are in a pendulum?
Perhaps a fleeting escape is worth a penny of
the glamour bandage singing our trampled brothers and
sisters a tune.
And so I'm reminded of that old man who used hands as his
feet, carving the road just outside the church gate,
begging for a tiny piece of the spare in the fortune we make.
It's been so long, I was on toddler feet, tottering, chattering...
I was a mighty chirp. I saw that man and thought his little bench
looked fun. He must enjoy speeding down in every brief slopes
under the cheerful sun. In my mind he was performing
for a crowd. Now my ignorance has long been
drowned by a conscience so loud. What fun is there to wear
clothing that strips your self-respect bare? What fun... is there
when you beg for life as you still the gusts from your breath...
as you try to delay your churning hunger? What fun... is there...
to ride free-wheeling upon that stage of rolling wheels you
found from a trash. It's your only home, and it has no walls.
But it's the only thing you got that you can call your own,
save for thinning flesh and bones, beneath equally thinning clothes.
