120 Quotes by Harry Chapin

Remember when the music Came from wooden boxes strung with silver wire And as we sang the words, it would set our minds on fire, For we believed in things, and so we’d sing.

She was married for seven years to a concrete castle king. She said she wanted to learn to play the guitar and to hear her children sing. So I’d show up about once a week in my faded tight-legged jeans with a backlog full of hobo stories and dilapidated dreams.

Oh God they got you gun shy You know your skin’s as cold as ice Your eyes are double filtered babe You’re so afraid to be nice There’s no way you’re ready To let your defenses down Though I won’t come on heavy There is a lesson that I’ve found.

He was dancing to some music No one else had ever heard He’d speak in unknown languages She would translate every word And then when the world was laughing At his castles in the sky She’d hold him in her body Till he once again could fly.

What is needed is a marriage of two impulses, a coupling of the urge to do something positive with the willingness to constantly re-evaluate how effectively our actions lead to our goal – that of ending world hunger...

And we would play together, like fine musicians should, And it would sound like music, and the music would sound good. But in real life I’m stuck with that same old formula, me and my monophonic symphony, six string orchestra.

You see, dream-lover of a lady, what shakes me to the core Is the thought as you caress me, you’ve done this all before I think about the future with me out and others in Will I, too, have disappeared like I’ve never ever been?

Why did the little girls grow crippled While the little boys grow strong The boys allowed to come of age The girls just came along The girls were told sing harmonies The boys could all sing songs That’s why little girls grew crippled While little boys grew strong.

And while blood’s the only language that your deaf old ears can hear And still you will not answer with that message coming clear Does it mean there’s no more ripples in your tired old glory stream And the buzzards own the carcass of your dream?