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 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