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Father your failures are so grave, |
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they have seeped to son. |
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No amount of wishing, |
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for grace to be regained or won. |
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10,000 pounds of hope, |
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on the shoulders of one. |
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It's clear to me, |
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how the son has gone to seed. |
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It's clear to me, |
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how the roots shape the tree. |
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If I found a penance to be paid, |
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if I found a payment to be made. |
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There's no real letter to write, |
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To no real father of mine. |
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With no real things, |
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it's hard not to think. |
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With no real things, |
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it's hard not to sing. |
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Father your failures are so grave, |
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they have seeped to son. |
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No amount of wishing, |
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for grace to be regained or won |
