Songs Without Words
When they brought him to the Hospital
He was listed as John Doe.
He would have liked the irony-
as Harry Chapin was well known.
His hair was like a lion’s mane
His face both kind and strong
Though doctor’s tried and nurses cried
Harry had sung his last song.
Like Wednesdays’ child with far to go,
He’d been on the road that day.
He was scheduled for a concert
For which he’d take no pay.
He sang songs for the suppers
of the poor and the deprived.
He may not have been “Religious”
-but he lived life sanctified-
His car was observed slowing down
And weaving between lanes
He might even have been dying then
of Coronary pains.
[...] Read more
poem by John F. McCullagh
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