 His life is that blue bike, ball glove and fishin' pole,
Tree-house, BB gun and band-aid covered knees.
He does good deliverin' papers,
An' cuttin' grass for the neighbors,
Except for Widow Wilson: he cuts hers for free.
His little hands do a lot for a kid his age,
He puts one-tenth of his hard earned money,
In the offerin' plate each Sunday by his own choice.
There's a lotta man in that little boy.
Weekdays, he tries to sleep late:
Weekends, he's up at daybreak.
Him and Roy wadin' in Cotton Creek.
That dog was like his brother:
You see one, you seen the other.
Cut one an' both of them would bleed.
Tires screamed, but that ol' truck couldn't stop.
There's the tree that he buried him under;
He made a cross from scraps of lumber,
An' on it carved: "God Bless ol' Roy."
There's a lotta man in that little boy.
There's a house, down where he goes fishin':
He told his Mom: "Those kids got nothin',
"And I don't need all these toys."
There's a lotta man.
(There's a lotta man. There's a lotta man.)
In that little boy.
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