Johnny Wrongcrowd

He had a slender young frame
And typically inquisitive eyes
That captured the sunlight
In their sapphire prisms.
But they are closed now
And almost completely covered
By his wild blonde hair.
He had a sort of folk fame
That is the cause of young girls’ cries
And makes older boys want to fight,
Cause ruckus, or any other sort of schism.
His parents always wondered how
He had flown free as a song bird
Without a single worry or care.

He did not often wear shoes
We he explored the woods
And ran through town
So his feat were tough
And strong because
He liked to run.
He had everything to lose
Hanging with those hoods,
They’d only drag him down.
He was not as rough
And respected the laws
When he had fun.

So it is strange to see him
Still in the oaks
But in shiny black Sundays
And an uncomfortable suit.
Now, when the porch light starts to dim
He won’t be in to tell jokes
And that special way his grace would amaze
Deserves all of our tears and a noble salute.