His Son Her Daughter

When his son isn’t posing or posting

Answering back or remaining stubbornly silent

Isn’t flirting or laughing

Or playing or chatting, or sneaking off

When he isn’t in his room or in his girlfriend’s

When he isn’t is school or looking for a job

Isn’t dodging taunts, or sleet

When he isn’t confounding his elders


She’s having her fifteen minutes

Via snaps of her on her bare, stained, mattress

One she shares with three others

in a bare, stained, room

And in paragraphs read by the other half

Describing her half-life

Call it seven and a half minutes

She’ll be remembered by the least myopic


Because though her case has been made

and made quite well

Her brilliance recorded

Her great appeal underlined

There are those who will comment upon her name

Chosen by a mother

Named after a perfume HER mother couldn’t afford

After a precious blue bottle of water

She herself could never


His son, his beautiful, beautiful, brown and shining son

In whom he’s invested all of his goodness

Fear, longing, anger, history and heritage

In hope hat he might rise up and sing

Or find a cure, or fly a rocket, anything

May be spread eagle, thrown against a building wall

Rough-handled, cursed at, beaten, or worse

Or worse or worse or worse


Is this why it’s harder for the rich to enter heaven

Than it is for a camel…

You know the rest

Because the eye of a needle is so much wider

Than the eye of the beholder?


All words and music by Dave Hall ©

Publisher: Row House Music   PRO: ASCAP