Curs in the Weeds

Lover of things Won't you agree How the winter could bring The darkest spring? With hell on your face Dirt on the walls In the back of the place You grew and complained Father of three Won't you believe That the ones in between The ones that are blamed Of fickle faith Cynics that seethe How their children are cursed Cursed to believe It's like marrow without bone To live in a house with no home Where the son is the darkest seed He crawls with the curs in the weeds Where had you been son? Not in the street, not in the yard Only once, I'll call off the dogs, if you call off your guard Where had you gone? Where had you been?