Concrete angles.
School yards filled whit nothing at all.
No other kids who want to play ball
Nobody else will take to themselves,
To laugh on the swings or climb on the shelves.
No, the school yards are filled whit nothing at all.
No tree to climb, no kid to fall.
No one to patch, a bruise or a scratch.
Not to come hug you whenever you call.
Cause the school yard is filled whit nothing at all.
Nothing but an old cold concrete wall.
Nothing but dust boulders and rust
And a big closed of building a hundred feet tall.
The school yard is filled whit nothing at all.
Except Macy who carries and old wooden doll
She skips and she laughs as she comes down the hall.
She jumps down the steps in her dress from Nepal.
As she chases a bouncing mad tennis ball.
But the school yard is not filled whit nothing at all
There are leafs on the trees that blow in a squall.
There are seeds down beneath that climbs up that wall
And they breaks through the pavement whit the life of a dahl.
After all that we thought “there is life after all.”
That’s what the cold concrete angles will paint on the wall.
There’s something true for me and for you.
There is a hope in the maddest mist of it all.
Concrete angles are the prettiest.
That’s what I think.
