His life is that blue bike, ball glove and fishin' pole, tree house, baby gun, and band-aid covered knees. He does good deliverin' papers and cuttin' grass for the neighbors, 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 lot of man in that little boy. Weekdays he tries to sleep late, weekends he's up at daybreak, him and Roy waitin' in Cotton Creek. That dog was like his brother, he'd see one and see the other, cut one and both of them would bleed. Tires screamed, but that old truck couldn't stop. Here's the tree that he buried him under, he made a cross from scraps of lumber, and on it carved God bless old Roy. There's a lot of 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 chores. There's a lot of man. In that little boy.