Horse Feathers Curs In The Weeds
Lover of things, won't you agree
how the winter could bring the darkest spring?
With hell on your face, firt on the walls int eh 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
like marrow without bone
To live in a house with no home
where the son is the darkest sea
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 days, if you call off your
guard.
where had you gone?
where had you been?
