My baby's teething in the den,
and I'm to give him what's mine.
He wasn't meant to walk with men
(doctors brought him round again).
In his eyes there is a cure,
to all the troubles in this home.
It'll haunt my every bone,
force me through the great unknown.
With a different name,
in a different place,
and a different way,
living different days.
With a rifle to stay,
a rifle to go.
Find a fire to tend,
and a martyr to mend.
Find a body to bend
in a million ways,
'til the thrill of a million
has faded away.
With the birth of a child
comes the end of an age,
like turning a phrase,
that erases a rage.