Tired Old Eyes

Little curly head, sleepy head, curled in your bed
with your head slipping off of your pillow,
changing face, what-you-will grown-up face
peeps out of childhood's slow-closing window.
I could watch you sleep for hours, for hours
if my tired old eyes would let me.

When I was your size, when the fires of surprise
burned a mile high so everyone saw them,
I was given a message in a bottle of gold
That said love is the answer to boredom.
I could watch you sleep for hours, for hours
if my tired old eyes would let me.

For years, I've been basting my fears
in the juices of blame and recrimination,
all the hours that I lost simply counting the cost
of relentlessly smashing, rebuilding.
But I could watch you sleep for hours, for hours
if my tired old eyes would let me.

So I'm down at the bottom, past glories forgotten,
the posters have crumpled and faded
here's another blank page I can harness my rage to,
and no-one will know that I made it.
But I could watch you sleep for hours, for hours
if my tired old eyes would let me.

You are the beginning the days flow before you
you're the head and the source of the river.
As you slip and you run, my sweet beautiful one,
take this bottle of gold to deliver.
I could watch you sleep for hours, for hours
if my tired old eyes would let me.