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There was a man whose memories were made up, |
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Of nothing. |
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He pushed the elevator button, and go home, |
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To nothing. |
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Yes his business had prospered but women get lonely sometimes, now she has the house |
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His son in college had dropped out, |
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To expand his mind. |
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And Sarah, his daughter had not spoken to him. |
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Maybe he'd raised her the wrong way. |
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He wondered. |
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He checked his mailbox, with fingers a-tremblin' |
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No mail, from anyone. |
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"I'm home?" he said softly, as he opened the door and gazed at his empty apartment. |
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Aching, thinking. |
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Southbound Jericho Parkway |
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Is what you call a one-way street. |
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Southbound Jericho Parkway |
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Is what you call a one-way street. |
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At 7.20, monday after New Year, |
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Mister Henry Johnson leaned against the pedal |
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Aimed his Lincoln steady and drove himself into a wall. |
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How could a thing sush as this ever happen. |
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All the community said it was shame. |
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He was a good man,he was a clean man. yeah, |
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That was it: he was a good, clean man |
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And his landlady said he was an exemplary tenant. |
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They're always nice and quiet when they're all alone |
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At his age. |
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The young man sat, on a small woven mat. |
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While the silken smoke it cirlcled over head. |
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The cigarettes were there to prove he didn't care |
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'Bout the contents of the telegram he'd just read. |
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Father, father, father. |
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You always seemed to be so out of reach. |
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And the psychedelyc sign read: peace. |
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Apartment in New York, a girl closes the door, |
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And leans against it with her head bowed low. |
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Thoughts raced through her mind |
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Of when she was a child. |
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Raised warmly by a man she didn't know. |
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Father, father, father. |
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She wished she had phoned him yesterday |
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There were so many things she had to say |
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Henry, the check is in my hands |
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Brought by the insurance man to cover all my plans |
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We'll have flowers, your broker will be there |
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And Sarah, if she cares, and our boy with all his hair |
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And the sun rose,and the sunset |
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As it always has, |
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And people yet unknown, were busy being born, |
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And time when past. |
