A friend of mine, he sometimes said, And though he tried to show the way, They only care about his name.
"Love is for the fool," A blind old man, he always said, But of it's joys he sometimes spoke And then it seemed, he could see. "Life is for the strong," A travelling monk, he told me once But of the weak, he never spoke Though their cries beat on his ears. I stood my gun in hand The swallow flew to meet his love And as they touched, I shot him down But now it's me that can't fly.
Writer(s): Anthony Phillips