Late the other day when the earth turned away I found a little book [?] in the grey [?] flower drawn like a child 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 he is serious Always counting those numbers He's got a red face and a mushroom head He's been 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 that 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 and the mushroom man weeped 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 out across the escape A sapling rose grew from the raven's grace From the raven's grave hope had sprung He knew then how it had been done As he tended to the raven's wing a seed of hope had grown within And now it grows for all to see and his planet is no longer just he