A young boy tries to fly away
But he falls and scrapes his knee
The old boys laugh while the young boys say
"I'm glad that wasn't me"
Salty tears drip into the blood in the dirt
As he sits there broken hearted
Glasses askew, and a badly torn shirt
Bullies whisper, "is he retarded?"
One year goes by
The whispers never cease
The bullies always talk about my
Boy who skinned his knees
But they point to the horizon
As speeding he does soar
Flies merrily, my son
Tethered by doubts no more