On a dirty city ghetto street,
From high above my head,
A pretty paper waved and fell
Carried by the wind.
It passed in front of my face
Before its final fluttering descent,
To a dirty crowded sidewalk,
It was carried by the wind.
, the pretty paper said,
Tho finger printed and smudged.
We have no chimney here on this 5th floor,
But you'll see our smoke carried by the wind.
My mommy's cooking, tired,
She works so hard, may I request
That you find us a real house?
Where kitchen smells can be carried in the wind?
I took that pretty paper,
Held it in my leather-gloved hand.
This sudden thought I had,
It too, carried in the wind.
The little hand that wrote it
Had no way of knowing
It fell before a grown-up ghetto child,
Now rich, just carried in the wind.