I went out in the boondocks to save the poor
I tried to get a drunkard to take the cure
I tried to get a drop-out a saw mill job
I tried to teach a poacher, it's wrong to rob
I met the local preacher, he said to me:
"My people don't know hunger or poverty."
I met the VISTA sponsor, well, golly gee
"You come around next April, we'll have some tea."
I turned my head toward Heaven, I felt so blue
I asked the Lord above me, "What shall I do?"
The Lord replied, "You've got to play by the rule
Or you'll get terminated, and blow your cool."
How can a VISTA worker play by the rule
When non-conforming got him kicked out of school?
"The choice is pretty simple," says Uncle Sam,
"Appropriate behavior or Viet Nam!"
( To the tune of "I Gave My Love A Cherry" )
The grimy Winter had, at last, receded
and tentative Spring was tiptoeing in
but hardly a soul seemed to heed.
Things were starting to turn dark
along Stoney Island Avenue, as
Grampa began his usual walk at dusk.
Noticing a nursing mother on a park bench,
instinctively he pursed his lips, as though
reawakened by memories of long ago.
Grampa welcomed the return of Spring.
It was in his heart. It was in his step.
Rat-tat-tat, his cleats clicked along the way.
Passing cars blinked and he winked back.
Smells of supper curled around his nostrils.
He was lost in the perfume of home cooking.
Dogs barked. He'd just scratch their necks.
And when a light drizzle spattered him,
smiling, he'd just turn the other cheek.
Drab wrens roosted amidst the elms,
serenaded by the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker,
while a couple carried their laundry home.
Grampa turned left, down 93rd street.
He too was on his way home. Suddenly,
a wild-eyed punk appeared from nowhere.
"Turn over your wallet, old man", he growled,
shaky gun in hand. Not moving fast enough,
Grampa took three bullets. Rat-tat-tat.