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| Among the bell bottom jeans and the polyester shirts there lives a little boy whose face is smeared with dirt. His father didn't love him; his friends simply don't care, and as he lies amongst the wreckage, he sees that he hasn't much to spare. His manner is very quiet, though you'll often hear him shout. He plays like a musician but he can't get the lyrics out. He never sniffs his whiteout, though he's awfully fond of paste. It's the only thing that he can eat that doesn't leave an aftertaste. His heart is filled with charcoal and his tummy's full of glue. His eyes are rather empty, though he's looking right at you. His rainbows all have faded now, there's nothing left but rain. He's a crazy, lonely runaway, but you'll never hear him complain. He's got no one to go home to, because his house is full of ghosts. So all alone on Christmas morning; he eats peanut butter toast. |
| The Charcoal Heart |
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