John Philip Griffith

He was a simple man only to a stranger.<br>And the kindness in his eyes<br>I still remember.<br>Now that he is old,<br>they say he`s angry and he`s cold,<br>That his soul is dying.<br><br>He`s a wealthy man`s dream,<br>and he`s a working man`s dime.<br>He has stood in both men`s shoes<br>in his own damn time.<br>The hard times of the thirties<br>still linger in his mind<br>When he is lonely.<br>He`s out there in the cold,<br>twenty years away from home.<br>Does he dream about his old home<br>in San Antone?<br>He`s often watched the highways,<br>but he`s a man of sixty-five.<br>Where ain`t a soul in El Paso<br>who would give an old drunk a ride.<br><br>Now, he traded in his draftsman`s pen<br>for a fishing pole.<br>And his mansion on the hill<br>is an alley in El Paso.<br>The anchors of the fifties<br>still hold to broken dreams<br>When his sorrows grow.<br><br>He`s out there in the cold,<br>twenty years away from home.<br>Does he dream about his old home<br>in San Antone?<br>He`s often watched the highways,<br>but he`s a man of sixty-five.<br>There ain`t a soul in El Paso<br>who would give an old drunk a ride.<br><br>Now, they tell me that John Philip<br>loved to gamble in his day.<br>And he burned his bridges well<br>when he walked away.<br>He closed those corporate doors,<br>left his children and his home . . .<br>Now no one owns him.