WORDS

CUTTING ROOM FLOOR

Poor Freddy’s little hobby was all we left him to.

What else can you give a shy boy who’s lost in darkness, feeling blue?

My kid is eight feet tall. Crushing air from footballs.

His number came up black thirteen. Born into the strangest dream.

 

All those well wishers shook their heads, and said it must be 

hard.

My wife and I felt helpless. We kept him inside the yard.

Christmas fingerpaints. Dominoes and no complaints.

But, my son had fooled us all, he wished for April late last fall.

 

I’ve judged another cover. 

Burn me at the stake.

Thank God he’s not on the cutting room floor with the other out takes.

 

Intentions written on your forehead and your clean white coat.

There’s a smile on your lips. You’ve got a plan? I’ll foil it.

You want my child? To poke around his head awhile?

To take him from his wishing games, so you can be a household name?

 

I won’t ever throw out a bad batch again.

He’s our last best hope.

He gave us rubies and passed the moon.

He’s our private periscope to the world.

He’s focused before we’ve ever thought of looking.

 

 

JVA - Guitars, Vocals, Bass, Keyboards, Percussion, Drum Samples