The Paper Ones
Back in the day when the Summer meant grass, Meant the smells and the sickness of new romance, Meant the games in the trees and the backseat trance, My thoughts dissolved out the window.
When the dense conflict was to be overcome, My Father stood up and he told me, “Son, Here’s the enemy of enemies now aim your gun.” Well I guess I can forgive him.
Afraid to experiment, afraid of life, My parents thought I could avoid their strife, If I could just skip the confusion and end up with a wife, Or just skip life altogether.
The paper ones get stepped on, trampled and torn, Their fragile little bodies unreadable, worn, Talk about your sick abuse, your crown of thorns, They never saw it coming.