His life is that blue bike, ball glove an' fishin' pole,

Tree-house, baby gun and band aid covered knees.

He does good deliverin' papers, 

An' cuttin' grass for the neighbours,

Except for Widow Wilson: he cuts hers for free.

His little hands do a lot for a kid his age,

He puts one-tenth of his hard earned money,

In the orphan plate each Sunday by his own choice.

There's a lotta man in that little boy.



Weekdays, he tries to sleep late:

Weekends, he's up at daybreak.

Him an' Roy wadin' in Cotton Creek.

That dog was like his brother: 

You'd seen one, you'd see the other.

Cut one an' both of them would bleed.

Tires screamed, but that ol' truck couldn't stop.

There's the tree that he buried him under;

He made a cross from scraps of lumber,

An' on a card: "God Bless ol' Roy."

There's a lotta man in that little boy. 



There's a house, down where he goes fishin':

He told his Mom: "Those kids got nothin',

"And I don't need all these toys."

There's a lotta man.

(There's a lotta man. There's a lotta man.)

In that little boy.