So
I'm on my way back to the house that I grew up in,
the beige one with the red door across the street
from the library.
Used to play below the parking lot of the
old Hickory Church of Christ where all my
neighbors went to see the Savior they've been into yet.
My mother used to be a secretary on a fishing boat
till she went to college and became a famous scientist.
Yeah,
Huckleberry,
Finn and I,
we used to bike around at night
take a ride on Riverside,
let our paper airplanes fly.
Just the other day I drove
down my old street and just the other
day I recognized my neighbor and he
recognized me too.
Ding-dong,
the witch is dead,
all my neighbors whispering.
The rent-a-pool, the
trigger on a quiet summer morning.
The shot was loud enough for everyone to hear on
Cleve Street.
My mother wasn't home that day so I cried,
cried,
cried.
Every now and then I drive down
my old street.
Every now and then I stand barefoot in my old backyard.
There I see
my Savior staring back at me.
I wonder if I've changed at all since 1983.
I used to wait till the late of night.
They caught me every time I tried to get on
top of the Church of Christ where all my paper
airplanes died.