The Brooklyn Crew


The winters, the summers, it was always the same.
Play horse, stickball, play any old game.
For the child in the day, time goes by.
They laugh, they fight and yes they cry.

Young man young women someday they will be.
Play big boy games like pool or go off for a degree.
The day will come when the split will begin.
The years will pass, show age in their skin.

Their hair will turn white, but their eyes will stay bright.
The children will grow like turning on the light.
The children will make mistakes in life.
Each will have their share of strife.

So the circle of life begins with the child.
As the old, watch the new, go through the wild.
There’s no real control reliving the game.
30, 40 and 50 and more years will pass.
They’ll graze in the grass, together at last.

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