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