When your temples quake with their sleepy look,
and you finger the stem of your glass—
and the age crept in like a closet crook,
would you hold me, hold me; would you hold me?
Would you brush my hair again?
Adolescence like the month of March—
what can I say? I’m sorry it left
its footprints on the shirts you starched,
but please hold me, hold me; please hold me,
and read to me on pillows again.

Ma—mother you know. Mother you don’t know best.
Ma—mother you grow into yourself day by day by day by day.

And I know you’re tired, ‘cause I can see the bags
as you hide behind your bangs,
and you clean the sink with filthy rags,
but would you hold me, hold me; would you hold me
as the water runs over and the words lag?

Would you sun yourself on the grass again?
Fight the doors back; fight the giants.
There are letters that you will never send,
so please hold me, hold me; please hold me.
Will you let the hate free like a butterfly,
like a gently crawling sigh?