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he was a boy, eight years old |
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a shy smile and a kind and tender soul |
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something different he couldn't name |
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it didn't matter that he knew it anyway |
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knew he wasn't the same |
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they wage war on the black asphalt |
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he lay in clovers outside their army wall |
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they said why don't you come along |
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but he was watching the clouds and singing songs |
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they knew something was wrong |
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Benjamin - they say he acts kind of strange |
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he don't play the way the other boys play |
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and when they've taken him for hostage |
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with their killing games and guns |
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he says could you lay me under flowers |
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when you are done |
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days turn into months and years |
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coming in with hope and out with air |
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now a man, he grows proud |
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but with his freedom they say he speaks to loud |
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so they turn it around |
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friendly voices and nice words too |
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and he yearns to believe them, wouldn't you |
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follows them out of the crowded bar |
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and then they drive to the country in their car |
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where no one sees but the stars |
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Benjamin - he tries hard to be so brave |
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to sticks and stones |
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and the cruel words that people say |
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and as their stripping off his clothes |
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to make a pile of what he was |
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he's begging 'why oh why?' |
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and they're answering 'because' |
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morning comes with the blackbird song |
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does his mother sense that something is wrong |
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lied awake against the sleeping town |
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his body casting a shadow on the ground |
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with his head hanging down |
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Benjamin - is made a scarecrow in the field |
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a crown of thorns |
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to crucify the way they feel |
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and before light fades to blackness |
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he sees swirling of his blood |
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and thinks what pretty patterns |
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hatred makes on love |
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he says could you lay me under flowers |
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when you are done |
