|
(Mary Gauthier/Crit Harmon) |
|
From the painful rays of daybreak |
|
Ripping darkness out your eyes |
|
To every kiss with bourbon breath |
|
your daddy didn't hide, he didn't hide |
|
From the crack of his backhand slap |
|
To your mama's blue veined hands |
|
That held her rosary desperately |
|
Cause she didn't understand |
|
From the brokenhearted playground |
|
in the lonely afternoon |
|
To the violence of little boys |
|
And the crying in your bedroom |
|
Till the wind blows right through you and rain don't get you wet |
|
Till your lips move constantly but you ain't said nothing yet |
|
Till you ride that horse in circles going up and coming down |
|
Round and round, it's a merry go round |
|
From the bitter tears of helplessness |
|
Falling from your grandma's face |
|
As they strap you to the stretcher |
|
While she quickly packs your suitcase |
|
From the money that you stole from her |
|
on the day she died |
|
To the long lines at the clinic |
|
Waiting for a days supply, a days supply |
|
Till the wind blows right through you and rain don't get you wet |
|
Till your lips move constantly but you ain't said nothing yet |
|
Till you ride that horse in circles going up and coming down |
|
Round and round, it's a merry go round |
|
From the phone booth on the freeway |
|
When there's no one left to call |
|
To the porcelain Cod you pray to |
|
In the public restroom stall |
|
From the milky white of heroin |
|
as it bubbles and it sooths |
|
To the dirty sheets you lie on |
