My Blue Truck

Yes, it's true, the patient thorns of virtue,
Sting in subtle waves, the innocent dreams,
the stingy waiting rooms of childhood,

I never learned to still my anxious panic,
Heckling the furniture and cursing the floors,
When the worry grew loud I couldnt bear it,

And finally, like the end of a painful shot,
The screeching rubber of the blue truck heard,
My Dad, my hero, my everything rode down,

Away went the grieving sad grunts
And my tremoring fears,
Dad, the Shaman Warrior, swept up my tears.