Scott Bevan

Music & Words


The Catcher

These four walls,
They hide the light
And the scent of the rye fields

That’s where I played
My childhood games
Never a fence, just
The catcher.

There was a man
I thought I knew
But his eyes were beyond
The catcher.

They thrashed my mind
With therapy.
Tried to tell me there was no such thing
As the catcher.

I heard the strangest tales and the weirdest lies
About my life.
If I could find the fields in a husky home,
I’d live my days.
All those faces in a street-life serenade,
How they waltz and swoon in a phony glaze
That could never be me.

Where’s the catcher?

Those films are so untrue,
And so’s my date to me.
That’s why I left her
staring at the screen.

The fields have been stripped bare,
The rye has blown away.
It’s turned into this bourbon
In a New York bar.

I heard the strangest tales . . .    


© Scott Bevan

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