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.

Comments