Rheostatics All The Same Eyes
Tim Veseley
A mother and her kids
An eleven a.m. trip
Down the street from where they live
To a grassy little stop
That someone's called a park
'Cause it's routed in the wood
A mother and her kids
And they all have the same eyes
And they're greener than they're blue
And they love each other, too
A mother looking tired
Always weighted under
'Cause no one else brought food
And it's a (Sunday) slow afternoon
'Cause there's no one else around
And the TV drags her down
Under weight of growing up from the ground
I aspire to work so hard
All the gold is buried in the park
A mother and her kids
Walking hand in hand in hand
And they all have the same eyes
