And see that cracked old door of Fry’s.
And my heart is brushed, as the noon day
trees
Are touched with the whisp of the strolling
breeze.
Alas, that the heart mayn’t always hold
The honest love of the nine-year-old.
I haven’t a doubt you’re dreaming now
Of some frank maid with an honest brow
Who chose you out for she loved you so,