|
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. |
