I had an email from Jeff Teel in my Inbox this morning. He forwarded a recording of Harry Chapin singing Flowers Are Red. The subject line says: “poor quality radio recording from 1981”. It is a bit scratchy sounding but it sounds good enough to me. I think the music, style and delivery add so much to the lyrics.
Update: I have since replaced Jeff’s file to the YouTube version to save bandwidth.
Those of you who know me well know how I feel about unions in general. I am constantly tring to educate people about the history of unions and the good that they have done and continue to do for the rights and well-being of workers. Bill Knight has written a fact filled reason why everyone should write, call or email their Congress Critters and state very clearly that we want them to vote FOR the Employee Free Choice Act currently before Congress.
....about the song, Flowers are Red, reminds me of poem I picked up back in the mid 70’s. I do not know who the author of it is but it has been around in various forms since the mid 70’s
I have seen it with two different titles, one being “UN EDUCATION” and the the other, Morning Is Yellow Like A Desk Is Square.
Here it is.
Morning Is Yellow Like A Desk Is Square
He always wanted to explain things. But no one cared. So he drew. Sometimes he would draw and it wasn’t anything. He wanted to carve it in stone or write it in the sky. He would lie out on the grass and look up in the sky. And it would be only him and the sky and the things inside him that needed saying. And it was after that he drew the picture. It was a beautiful picture. He kept it under his pillow and would let no one see it. And he would look at it every night and think about it. And when it was dark, and his eyes were closed, he could still see it. And it was all of him. And he loved it. When he started school he brought it with him. Not to show anyone, but just to have with him like a friend. It was funny about school. He sat in a square brown desk Like all the other square brown desks And he thought it should be red And his room was a square brown room. Like all the other rooms. And it was tight and close. And stiff. He hated to hold the pencil and chalk, With his arm stiff and his feet flat on the floor. Stiff. With the teacher watching and watching. The teacher came and spoke to him. She told him to wear a tie like all the other boys. He said he didn’t like them. And she said it didn’t matter. After that they drew. And he drew all yellow and it was the way he felt about morning. And it was beautiful. The teacher came and smiled at him. “What’s this?” she said. “Why don’t you draw something like Ken’s drawing? Isn’t it beatiful?” After that his mother bought him a tie. And he always drew airplanes and rocket ships like everyone else. And he threw the old picture away. And when he lay alone looking at the sky, It was big and blue and all of everything, But he wasn’t anymore. He was square inside. And brown. And his hands were stiff. And he was like everyone else. And the things inside him that needed saying didn’t need it anymore. It had stopped pushing. It was crushed. Stiff. Like everything else.
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