When sober, Dad played music in a band.
He pressed a flute into my childish palm.
I learnt to read the music on his stand
and my soul bathed in wondrous soothing balm.
Soon my flute could weep or laugh or croon;
I was dragged off to play in some saloon
while Dad knocked back his shots of Scotch and water
and told his pals how much he loved his daughter.

His bar-room buddies buried dear old dad
and all his music books began to fade.
I went to school, the teachers said: too bad,
she's plain and dull; I never made the grade.
When spring came round, I left the town.
Street kids robbed me, left me feeling down.
Bitterly I cried - no documents, no cash;
My hold on life had taken quite a crash.

I let them laugh, I bore each curse and blow
I lived on handouts and never had a job.
But when I made my flute sing sweet and low
in ecstasy my aching heart would throb.
The sun went down and in the fading light of day
they'd kick me out, but then they heard me play.
So once in a while God's breath with gentle power
swept this earth and brought each note to flower.