That little red cup, chipped on the side,
The moth-eaten teddy bear falling apart,
That game to which you long lost the guide,
The drawings that are more scribble than art.
People surround themselves with useless things,
Forgotten trash that belongs firmly in the past
Because it’s special to them, healing slings
Symbols of things that went by too fast.
One man’s trash, another man’s treasure,
It’s a bit of a cliche by now perhaps
But you can’t measure memories and pleasure
What’s special to you shouldn’t be turned into scraps.