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?
