| I’ll put flowers at your feet,
|
| And I will sing to you so sweet,
|
| And hope my words will carry home to your heart.
|
| You left us marching on the road,
|
| And said how heavy was the load —
|
| The years were young, the struggle barely at its start.
|
| Do you hear the voices in the night, Bobby
|
| They’re crying for you
|
| See the children in the mrning light, Bobby
|
| They’re dying
|
| No one could say it like you said it;
|
| We’d only try and just forget it.
|
| You sood alone upon the mountain 'til it was sinking,
|
| And in a frenczy we tried to reach you
|
| With looks and letters we would beseech you —
|
| Never knowing what, where or how you were thinking.
|
| Do you hear the voices in the night, Bobby
|
| They’re crying for you
|
| See the children in the morning light, Bobby
|
| They’re dying
|
| Perhaps the pictures in the Times
|
| Could no longer be put in rhymes,
|
| When all the eyes of starving children are wide open.
|
| You cast aside the cursed crown,
|
| And put your magic into a sound
|
| That made me think your heart was aching, or even broken
|
| But if God hears my complaint He will forgive you,
|
| And so will I, in all respect, I’ll just relive you
|
| And likewise you must understand the things we give you:
|
| Like these flowers at yur door,
|
| And scribbled notes about the war.
|
| We’re only saying that time is short and there is work to do.
|
| And we’re stilll marching on the streets
|
| With little victories and big defeats,
|
| But there is joy, and there is hope, and there’s a place for you.
|
| Do you hear the voices in the night, Bobby
|
| They’re crying for you
|
| See the children in the morning light, Bobby
|
| They’re dying |