I met a man on Sunday, he had Friday eyes.
He was looking for a future with a little surprise.
He mumbled and stumbled singing slowly to himself, saying
"Son, I may be troubled, but I don't need no help."
Runaway. Run 'til you run out of breath.
Run 'til you run to your death, so unkind.
But it seems to remind me that an angel's gonna find me someday.
His eyes were glazed and tired, his face a wrinkled brown.
His ears heard too many lies. His mouth carried a frown.
He said, "I take my happiness as I take my pain.
I've gone from here to heaven; now I'm back again."
I looked into his face. He looked me in the eye.
Sain, "Son, if life's got you, you've still got to try."
And then I walked away. I'd heard more than he had told.
The mirror caked with ice. I walked into the cold.
Lyrics copyright by Sumanta Banerjee 1976, Max Magliaro 1996. All rights reserved.