Curs in the Weeds - normal

	作曲 : Ringle
	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?

	zuò qǔ : Ringle
	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?