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Old man, I heard some things about the boy you used to be. |
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No father, no king, just a broken old man broken by the whiskey. |
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Too afraid to stay, too smart to not leave, |
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Too young to be a bird who forgot to sing, |
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And a ground that never knew the knees |
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Of a boy and his own tale of two cities. |
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"Sometimes a man breaks, sometimes he can't bend |
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When his youth is a wound time won't mend. |
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(never the best of times) |
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Sometimes a man breaks, sometimes he can't bend |
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At the thought of peace as something only lent. |
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(only the worst of mine) |
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Sometimes a man breaks, sometimes he can't bend |
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When his son is another one who won't understand": |
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The Irish temper, it's history's chains, |
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And the bottle's stain that just won't wash away. |
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But a seed was planted in the sod of nothingness from which you came, |
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And flowers grew and roses bloomed |
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To form this garden of a life you've made. |
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And in this city you once knew as hell |
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Is a garden where I enjoy myself. |
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And in this father I hardly know |
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Was a son who took back what the bottle stole |
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So I could be the boy you couldn't be |
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Have the father you didn't get to see |
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Have the youth you did not get to live |
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Or feel the love this world forgot to give. |
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And for this gift I don't deserve to get |
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I'll make damn sure I earn this. |
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"o' your friends say boston's beautiful, |
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But they didn't live here, they didn't die here |
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In the Hyde Park years. |
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O' your friends say boston's beautiful, |
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But they didn't live hard, they didn't die hard |
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When sons dragged out their fathers from bars. |
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O' your friends say boston's beautiful, |
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But they didn't dream here, they didn't scream here |
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When no one hears. |
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O' your friends say boston's beautiful, |
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But they didn't hide here, they didn't cry here |
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When little boys weren't allowed to she'd their tears." |
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There just aren't enough men like you. |
