The Story of the Raven and the Mushroom Man

Later in the day,
When the earth turned away.
I found a little book,
Nearly blended in the grey.
But for it's flower -
Drawn like a child's on the cover!
It was the story of the raven
And the mushroom man
He was the first real friend he ever had
I never want to be
Like that serious man,
Telling himself be a serious!
Always counting those numbers!
He's got a red face
And a mushroom head,
He's spent too long in the rat race,
Too long in the dead days.
If only a raven with a sore wing,
Could fall at his feet
With eyes full of mercy,
The little mushroom man might fashion
A little splint out of driftwood,
And he might feel a little light shine,
He might see his own kindness.
And think that,
'Maybe counting isn't everything!
Maybe there are more ravens,
Who need me more than numbers?'
The mushroom man loved the raven so,
And deep inside his heart,
Grew a thing called hope
One Sunday night,
The raven was weak.
He didn't wake up,
How the mushroom man weeped!
It caused his planet to leak!
Well, he buried his friend,
And he buried his books.
He looked out to space,
And his head he shook
As he looked down,
A gasp escaped!
A sapling rose
Grew from the ravens grave!
From the ravens grave,
Hope had sprung!
And he knew then,
How it had been done.
As he'd tended to the ravens wing,
A seed of hope had grown within!
And now it grows for all to see,
And his planet is no longer just he