Lotta Man (In That Little Boy)

His life is that blue bike, ball glove an' fishin' pole,
Tree-house, BB gun and band aid covered knees.
He does good deliverin' papers,
An' cuttin' grass for the neighbours,
Except for Widow Wilson: he cuts hers for free.
His little hands do a lot for a kid his age,
He puts one-tenth of his hard earned money,
In the offering plate each Sunday by his own choice.
There's a lotta man in that little boy.

Weekdays, he tries to sleep late:
Weekends, he's up at daybreak.
Him an' Roy wadin' in Cotton Creek.
That dog was like his brother:
You'd seen one, you'd see the other.
Cut one an' both of them would bleed.
Tires screamed, but that ol' truck couldn't stop.
There's the tree that he buried him under;
He made a cross from scraps of lumber,
An' on it carved: "God Bless ol' Roy."
There's a lotta man in that little boy.

There's a house, down where he goes fishin':
He told his Mom: "Those kids got nothin',
"And I don't need all these toys."
There's a lotta man.
(There's a lotta man. There's a lotta man.)
In that little boy

Похожие новости.

К северу, к северу, к северу едет поезд ночной Из глубинки в Москву. Спит проводник, спят хмельные соседи, Я все уснуть не могу. Тускло горят фонари у дороги, Где-то вдали завывает гудок. Вот уже стало светать

I love you, I love you I love you too Baby will you call me The moment you get there I love you, I love you And I love you too Baby will you call me The

You put the sparkle back in my smile You made me want to walk a thousand miles You let me know that it's so And everything must live Everything must breath Now you say you

No more Cigars from Cuba, oppression in East Timor, sedition in Zimbabwe, dollar crisis in New York. Skinhead thugs out on the streets in London and Berlin, GM foods grown in the West,

Тихое утро над городом плачет, Тихое утро сводит с ума. Я не могу, не могу я иначе, Я не могу, я умру без тебя! Ты не знаешь, как больно и пусто, Ты же не хочешь,