Urban street kid,working class
blue coller
father heavy handed
ready his anger at the world
to vent well hidden violence
in the family kept
with steady rythem beating
the boys chest his drum
still and all when gone
left nothing but a sad,sad song

Hard times growing up lean
but never mean
news papers folded
a strurdy sole does make
in shoes as the holes apear
dont say a word
mum he knows hasnt the money
she dont need the pain the guilt
just coss there aint no honey
keep praying it dont rain

twelve years old the leason soon learned
labour bought and sold
winter nights cold
a mothers chioce heating or eating
the seat of learning
a world less engaging
tediose and boring
the road was calling
sixteen sleepuing bag rolled
hair to the shoulder
hendrix in my ears
thumb stuck out my ticket
to lifes highways


the boy in the man
still searching for a father erant
old man dying
still searching for the son
left behind