"Cats in a Cradle", a childs response

"Underneath the Door."

Natalie Martin

My father was a doctor who would come home late at night

With a soul so bruised and bleeding from his unending faithful fight

To keep a hold of kindness in a world that isn't kind

To hold out the hope of healing to his hurting human kind

And he'd flee back to his study to his bookish, quiet place

With notes and books and journals to wall in his special space

And then He's lock the door on things that cannot be locked out

And his yongest son would starve for what he would always do without

But it was meant to make me who I am and for all these many years

Still the little boy down on his knees full of hope, and full of fear

Calling underneath the door, this is me, it's who I am

For we love the best by listening when we try to understand

Desperate, stuby fingers pushing pictures 'neath the door

And longing to be listened to by the man that I adored

Inside someone who needed me just as much as I did him

Still unable to unlock the door that stayed closed inside of him

And it's strange the way we tend to flee from what we need the most

That a father would lock out his son when his heart would hold him close

But out wounds are part of who we are and there is nothing left to chance

And pains the pen that writes the songs and they call us forth to dance

Michael Card on his live album

"Scribbling in the Sand."

Cat's in a Cradle

"Cat's in a Cradle", Harry Chapin