Lover of things

Won′t you agree

How the winter could bringThe 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?