There is a little place
in a little room where a little chap hides
away amidst the gloom. Tucks his little legs
undermeath a well-worn chair plucks a piece
of paper and attacks at his despair. A
stubby lead pencil scratches through the fears of every little cruelness that reduces us to
tears. Sharp is the lead but wellis
penetrate all the nooks and crannies that
this world creates. There is so little time
for us to stop and look as he places the
cover upon his little book. There will come
a day when this little man will die and
they'll put him in a tiny hole undermeath the
sky His little lead pencel book and chair will be placed inside a plastic bag and taken
who knows where ...
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