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His life is that blue bike, ball glove an' fishin' pole, Tree-house, baby gun and band aid covered knees. He does good deliverin' papers, An' cuttin' grass for the neighbours, Except for Widow Wilson: he cuts hers for free. His little hands do a lot for a kid his age, He puts one-tenth of his hard earned money, In the orphan plate each Sunday by his own choice. There's a lotta man in that little boy. Weekdays, he tries to sleep late: Weekends, he's up at daybreak. Him an' Roy wadin' in Cotton Creek. That dog was like his brother: You'd seen one, you'd see the other. Cut one an' both of them would bleed. Tires screamed, but that ol' truck couldn't stop. There's the tree that he buried him under; He made a cross from scraps of lumber, An' on a card: "God Bless ol' Roy." There's a lotta man in that little boy. There's a house, down where he goes fishin': He told his Mom: "Those kids got nothin', "And I don't need all these toys." There's a lotta man. (There's a lotta man. There's a lotta man.) In that little boy. Please fill in the fields below and click SUBMIT to send it to your friend.
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