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A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,

WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC




ORPHAN ON MY OWN

Iím an orphan on my own,
Passing through this world alone.
No matter where I roam,
I miss my boyhood home.

All that I retain
Is my grandpaís watch and chain,
A deck of playing cards,
A pocket knife, and this guitar.

Tell me why we are only born to die.
Tell me why life is full of sad goodbyes.
Tell me why all my friends rise up and fly,
Fly away, hey, hey.

My parents understood,
And they did the best they could.
They taught me to be good,
And to do the things I should.

They taught me not to lie,
And to always question why,
To look you in the eye,
And never be afraid to cry.

Tell me why we are only born to die.
Tell me why life is full of sad goodbyes.
Tell me why all my friends rise up and fly,
Fly away, hey, hey.

As I wander through this land
I have come to understand
We must not make future plans;
We must do things while we can,

In the time that we are here,
For each moment disappears,
And the days turn into years,
And the end is always near.

Tell me why we are only born to die.
Tell me why life is full of sad goodbyes.
Tell me why all my friends rise up and fly,
Fly away, hey, hey.

Iím an orphan on my own,
Passing through this world alone.
No matter where I roam,
I am far away from home.

Canton, New York, 2006



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