Soup Can Gang

It's more or less a lie.

At the junkyard garden where they planted bones

In between the church and the intersection

This is an account of a gang of minors

With a name ripped from a soup can

Raise your hand high and I'll take the first pick

Wrapping round and round the fraying rope goes

Back against a tree with splintering bark

This is our favorite game, you know, right?

Sundays like those sulking on cement stairs

Blowing a balloon from a plastic tube

Slurping sour stew in the summer

Mud stained between my toes and dress shoes

Old fart over there is giving quite the laugh

Fingers pointed behind, yelling “stab, stab”

Something tells me that this all goes nowhere

The adults never take us seriously

Wipe that dried snot with your sleeve

I think I hear someone coming this way

Lazily I swing from a dead branch

Anyone's guess when it will snap in two

Wipe that dried snot with your sleeve

When I look back now, I was half asleep

The ice cream truck man is still looking

For the lost memory of a soup can gang

Tip toe in a patch of broken glass

Over the fence the stones began to fly

Big man starts to throw quite the tantrum

Can't blame us, we are nobodies

Just kidding, I may or not

Have lied a bit, maybe

The lost memory of a soup can gang