Little Drum

Crossing fields of consequence;
this life doesn't make much sense
my love, life doesn't make much sense to me.

I see it again: there's that pain in your eyes;
you don't have to explain
I know why.

 

But your little drum starts to pound
when we get near our playground,
I'll lift you up and we'll slide down
and lie all day there on the ground.

 

Down the steps to the sand
take my hand, and
we will never trip and fall.

Do you see that dancing boy on the car park?
Can he hear our sighs?
If he can dance then why can't I?