Bobby bondThere was a man whose memories were made up,Of nothing.He pushed the elevator button, and go home,To nothing.Yes his business had prospered but women get lonely sometimes, now she has the houseHis son in college had dropped out,To expand his mind.And sarah, his daughter had not spoken to him.Maybe he’d raised her the wrong way.He wondered.He checked his mailbox, with fingers a-tremblin’No mail, from anyone.ˇ°I’m homeˇ± he said softly, as he opened the doorAnd gazed at his empty apartment.Aching, thinking.Southbound jericho parkwayIs what you call a one-way street.Southbound jericho parkwayIs what you call a one-way street.At 7.20, monday after new year,Mister henry johnson leaned against the pedalAimed his lincoln steady and drove himself into a wall.How could a thing sush as this ever happen.All the community said it was shame.He was a good man,he was a clean man yeah,That’s what he was a good and clean manAnd his landlady said he was an exemplary tenant.They’re always nice and quiet when they’re all aloneAt his age.The young man sat, on a small woven mat.While the silken smoke it cirlcled over head.The cigarettes were there to prove he didn’t careˇ®bout the contents of the telegram he’d just read.Father, father, father.You always seemed to be so out of reach.And the psychedelyc sign read: peace.Apartment in new york, a girl closes the door,And leans against it with her head bowed low.Thoughts raced through her mindOf when she was a child.Raised warmly by a man she didn’t know.Father, father, father.She wished she had phoned him yesterdayThere were so many things she had to sayHenry, the check is in my handsBrought by the insurance man to cover all my plansWe’ll have flowers, your broker will be thereAnd sarah, if she cares, and our boy with all his hairAnd the sun rose,and the sunsetAs it always has,And people yet unknown, were busy being born,And time when past.
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