B. Cowsill-P. Cowsill
Traveled for many years,
He traveled across the seas.
Great ships taking him far, far away.
Left her, so many times he left her.
The children waved good-bye.
Mom would always cried inside.
She cried, she had pride.
Upon returning home one day,
Bought a guitar for his sons to play.
Within a year we strummed and we sang.
Everyone smiled as the harmonies rang.
All through the house all the melodies sang.
Years pa**ed, we found a home,
And at last a house across the lake,
Swing on a vine in the woods.
Ocean, but how we missed the ocean.
He said, "Pack up, we'll go back to the island our home."
He took us home.
He took us all home.
Once back home the music had grown.
Citizens waited in line to be shown.
The family group was good, all agreed.
But nobody helped out the man and his dream.
Everyone laughed at the man and his dream.
He walked for miles up and down New York streets,
Selling the songs on the taping in his sheeth.
Strange looks from record company heads.
"Later on you'll regret it", he said.
And later on they remembered he said.
Father, we'd like to thank you.
Father, and so we thank you.
Father, we'd like to say we love you.