"Bruce Did Something" He had to work in the deepest elevator In the New York Subway system Maybe it was the dirtiest, too It was his job, but he couldn't take it Day after day in the funk So he had a thought "I'll hang some plants in here!" And that's what he did. He took his own money And hung plants from the ceiling of the elevator He scrubbed the floor clean And brought in his boom box To serenade the early morning commuters With soft jazz And on the wall a place for the jewel boxes that says, "Now playing." And a wonderful thing happened The silent commuters said, "Thank you!" And "Good morning, how are you?" And everyone was cheerful for the brief moment That used to be the worst of the day-long drudgery Now they even look forward to that ride to the tracks With the one man in the subway Who did something Bruce Renfroe is his name And you can find him at the 181st Street Station Where he greets his friends by the hundreds And reads Scriptures in the slower hours In the original Hebrew Bruce's spirit soon caught on One grateful commuter brought Bruce a stack of CD's Another brought posters from London Of the jazz greats Now we ride to work with Satchmo Sarah Vaughn and Errol Gardner And when the MTA told him to take down the posters Bruce's riders told them where to go! Bruce did something And he made me think How beautiful would this world be If we all did something Anything at all No matter how little To make our earth more beautiful More peaceful Instead of just wallowing in the funk Feeling powerless Helpless Waiting for somebody else To do something When every one of us does something For world peace We will certainly achieve that miracle Just like Bruce's own miracle Of jazz and smiles In the bottom of an elevator shaft And as I left the subway I had a dream A nuclear missile was soaring overhead Shocked by the deafening sonic boom I trembled as I watched it pierce the sky Curving down toward the metropolis But when the frightful weapon crashed into the Hudson It shattered open on impact And floated in jagged white pieces for all to see The missile was empty by Maurice Peterson NYC