When I was young my father said,
Be weary son of your awful head,
Filled with thoughts both old and wise,
And soft spots there for tragic times.

I looked at him and laughed away,
All worries then of impending days,
So joyous then was I the fool,
Who held fast to the golden rule.

Treat others fair so they in kind,
Would carry on with you in mind,
But left unsaid was another half,
Walk along the quiet path.

The one not filled with tired hearts,
Waiting for a gentle spark,
Of love, of joy, of precious things,
For they all hide a broken wing.

They’ll look to you to patch them up,
Longing for a gentle touch,
To grab ahold and leech away,
And leave to you a tired state.