Spot Conlon
The name, the legened, the leader.
With his cane,
He is like a king, and leads as if he was one.
He strikes fear into the hearts of Newsies,
And the new ones better learn to fear him quick,
For he would deliver a soaking without a question.
He's fearless, this Spot, though his name is like a dogs.
His key, his souvenier of a life long gone,
His sarcastic laugh the only laugh anyone has heard in so long.
He's like an onion,
Mr. Conlon,
For you must peel every layer to find who he really is.
And people have yet to get that far,
That's saying he would let them.
He's lonely, he is, though he'd never admit it.
Jack Kelly may think he's a desent companion,
and to this Spot has to laugh.
The only real person he ever let through his shell,
Was a girl who left before he could get through hers.
His angel, his shining star, his saint,
Long gone from a sickness that took her away before he could blink.
And he's broken, which is another thing he'll never admit.
He's scared to let someone in,
For he believes he's a lost cause,
And wouldn't want what happened to his love to happen to anyone else.
And he sits in his perch at night, watching his kingdom stretch out before him,
Feeling the familiar unease of being alone set in.
And he's glad she isn't here to see this,
To see the cold young man he has become.
But, the part he always pushes back,
For fear of the tears he battles with every step,
Wishes she was next to him.
To warm the cold of his ways,
To fill the space that she left,
To glue the pieces of his heart back together,
To share his Brooklyn with him.
But his wish is impossible.
Someone like Spot can't belive in miracles.
Spot Conlon.
The lover, the lonely, the broken.
