There seems to be a perpetual damage to my brain,

And it helps to think I'm not crazy.

Wasn't it Tuesday? And by god, it's now Friday!

When the children go and play.

Oh, Mama, look at them –

With their blonde curly hair in front of their eyes.

Ah, Mama, praise the little ones,

In their blue-eyed innocence.

But why can't they see me now –

Those naïve and impish lads?

Oh why do they not ask of me now,

To come with them and dance?

In their ring-around-the-rosy

And their hop scotch and baseball,

They turn a cold, icy shoulder to me.

And so here and there I stand,

With my watery eyes fluttering

To the rhythmic sound of wooden bat

Cracking a ball 6,000 feet into the sky.

Those same eyes watching

Their devilish faces laughing

With the awe inspiring wonder of the world.

Ah, Mama, can't you tell them

That I am not an enemy?

Oh, Mama, please let them know

I'm not a grown-up, really!

But all in all, I cannot lie

For there is a perpetual damage to my brain,

And it helps to think I'm not crazy.