Hope grows between the cracks in the asphalt
in the downtown ghetto streets
that contour the government housing intentions of my heart
No one notices the daisies don't care
as long as they get enough air and water and sun
Who would've thought it but life is finding a way
through this wasteland of cynics, concrete, and pain
There's a man down here somewhere between
those Saturday cartooons and the dirty magazines
He's raising the dead in the graveyards
where we've laid down our dreams
Hope stands high on the 15th floor
of a Christmas tree perched about the ledge of a fortress
of steel that's trying to hard to be somebody's home
As it ceased my attention from I-85
though the throes of the day
Were still writhing inside
I lifted my head as I drove home that night and knew
everything was gonna be fine
Who would've thought it but life is finding a way
through this wasteland of cynics, concrete, and pain
(through this wasteland of cynics, concrete and pain)
There's a man down here somewhere between
those Saturday cartooons and the dirty magazines
He's raising the dead in the graveyards
where we've laid down our dreams
Everybody needs a little!
(In this wasteland of cynics, concrete and pain)
There's a man down here somewhere between
those Saturday cartooons and the dirty magazines
He's raising the dead in the graveyards
where we've laid down our dreams
Can you hear him outside?
He's been singing all night
He's saying when you gonna come out
from behind those paper-thin walls
of your cardboad box reality?
There's a man down here not worried or afraid
that some politician forgot all the promises he made
And he's raising the dead in the graveyards
where we've laid down our dreams
Can you hear him outside he's been singing all night
He's saying when you gonna come out from behind
These paper thin walls, your cardboard box realities?
Who would've thought it but life is finding a way
through this wasteland of cynics, concrete, and pain
There's a man down here not worried or afraid
that some politician forgot all the promises he made
And he's raising the dreams in the graveyards
where we've laid down our dead
More from John Mark McMillan