Off Beat Bike Ramps

Off beat bike ramps And a screaming grandfather that is not my own Across a street with no name, A boy sits on a stucco stoop, With rocks in hand, aimed for my future I ran away, or rather Rode away on my bike Around the block and grounded Downstairs, an old lady Appropriately named Clementine, for she was so sweet A black and white floor for two little girls Me being one of them, you being the other I mistook Tom for my father once And cried when my real one cut his hair Scattered are the memories But memorable nonetheless