| We’ve had some good times
|
| In photographs you see us laughing and carrying on
|
| White shirts on the clothesline
|
| Outside flapping like misshapen flags
|
| And where are the claims that we staked when we sank in the mire
|
| Motion suspended like stillness of birds on a wire
|
| Look, in good order from tallest to smallest
|
| Dressed up for the shot
|
| Some of us got to go on with our lives
|
| The ones that leave holes are the ones that did not
|
| And if you believe you will see them again over Jordan
|
| And if you’re not sure, you will plant them a tree in the garden
|
| Sorrow and joy are not oil and water
|
| They’re hater and lover, they inform each other
|
| Attract and repel make us sick make us well
|
| But in the end we must hold them together
|
| On the day that President Reagan was shot
|
| You skipped home from school thinking this was good news
|
| We surrounded you horrified broke you to tears
|
| But we’d force fed you politics beyond your years
|
| And after you died it was me who had cried
|
| At the memory
|
| Some things would fade
|
| But that image is clear as the day to me
|
| Sorrow and joy…
|
| Now you’re a still life, a rose on the table
|
| Forever a child
|
| My desperate desire just to ask you some questions
|
| Your school picture staring back at me a smile
|
| Plays on your face like the best of the times that we knew
|
| And how the negative lights up the darkness in you
|
| Sorrow and joy are not oil and water |