If you and yours, by chance of course, would happen not to be, I often wonder to myself 'Could there be room for me?' I love to tell you stories, or lend an open ear, But silence sinks, and again I think, 'Could this be it right here?' You talk of boys who've come and gone and still I am perplexed, By thoughts of me, standing next to thee, asking 'Could I possibly be next?' You fight your battles deep within, I try to lend a hand. More often than not, I fear the thought, 'Could this be where I stand?' If you and yours, by chance of course, would happen not to be, I often wonder to myself 'Could there be room... Would I make room... Is there room for me?'