Little prophet, tender little drummer
boy, I know was I not a good father to you, and a worse brother, but
I'll try my best to be noble friend. And though you have left the
jungle and all its rhythm and passion for the melodies of your
mother's wishes, I still hope we may one day make music together.
Someday when you're older and I am wiser, we will sit and talk, and
laugh and remember. But don't blame yourself, never blame yourself
little prophet.
And when you escape that dungeon, on
that day I will be here for you, with a smile, a cigar, and a cup of
Joe. And when you get away from that prison, on that day I'll be here
waiting for you, with tears in my eyes, and a freshly tuned piano
just for you. Don't let those apes, and lizards, and fiends command
your heartbeats and dictate your leisure. Don't let their failures
and their anger under your skin, my son, my brother, my friend, my
dear sweet friend, if you could see me on my knees sobbing
brutality for this nightmare brought upon you by the misdirections of
my own flesh and blood, my own eyes see what your world has become:
cowering from a coward, and bruises in penance of childhood.
You tell me you wish to join the
crusades, to bolster the lists of faceless names chiseled into rock
and marble. You tell me you want to fly like the spirit of vengeance,
to uphold the patriarchy, to wave a flag and lay waste to the sand
and stones of some land you've never even heard of before. I know
what they'll say about me, I know, I know. Listen to what they tell
you, but take it all with a handful of salt.
Remember when we spent our time in far
off lands we constructed? Come back with me, leave those jagged
shapes and meaningless words, and come with me. I know it all seems
so solid right now, I know you can't understand what I am trying
desperately to explain. But in time, my friend, in time.
I wipe away my tears, they'll only
confuse you right now. But let me say one last thing to you, little
prophet: The world doesn't need another angry boy with a gun.
