Children of Children

Pictures of the farm before us Old men in a gospel Sephia and saddle horses Easy on the reins '81 a motor in your Mama's 17 again She's squinting at the dusty wind The anger of the plains You and I were almost nothing Pray to God that God was bluffing 17 ain't old enough to reason with the pain How could we expect to stay in love When neither knew the meaning of the difference of sacred and profane I was riding on my mother's hip, she was shorter than the corn All the years I took from her, just by being born. Didn't mean to break the cycle At 17 I went by Michael No one ever called by my own name anyway Half full generations Living all these expectations Giving way to one, late to have a baby on the way You were riding on your mother's hip she was shorter than the corn All the years you took from her, just by being born.