I don’t know why my speech is slurred

Or why I can’t pronounce some words

Can’t hold a job or write my name

Have no interest in money or fame

I just do the best I can.

I know some people laugh at me

They don’t understand what they see

Sometimes they point, sometimes they stare

At my worn-out clothes, my shaggy hair

I’m a different kind of man.

But there’s a place, each day at noon

They have for me a shiny spoon

A pretty dish that holds my bread

A bowl of soup so that I’m well fed

Where I’m a happy man.

The kitchen people call me "friend"

They always say to come again

They shake my hand, take time to talk

Don’t mind that I stumble when I walk

They know I’m a lonely man.

The kitchen people welcome me

They don’t make fun of what they see

They don’t care ‘bout how much I know

They don’t even notice my hair or clothes

They think I’m a special man.

With trembling hands and eyesight blurred

The magic of their spoken word

Has helped me through another day

Given me hope, a new prayer to pray

"Help me be a better man."

I’ve walked many an icy mile

To see those daily noontime smiles

To sip my soup and break my bread

With friends who care and see that I’m fed

Because they understand.

These people know they could be me

We’re all a part of this mystery

They know the power of love for friends

That, as they love me, so do I love them