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My name is Hank Low |
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I was born on Christmas eve |
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My Daddy wasn't there |
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He was talking with the police |
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A neighbour called it in |
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He was hitting mom again, again, again |
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No ambulance came |
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Only stuttered grief |
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Ma fell asleep on the couch |
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While my brother played with me |
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No charges pressed |
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Soon dad was home, home, home |
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Busted lip |
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Milk and cheese |
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At the grocery store |
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Eyes looking down at me |
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Six years old, bubble gum hid |
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I my hand in my pocket |
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Now Ma only cried |
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When she watched TV |
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At night I'd lie awake |
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Till Dad fell asleep |
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Come fourth grade my Ma held me |
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And called me her little night watchman |
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My brother fell sick |
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When he turned fifteen |
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His eyes went dark |
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His head went mean |
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I cried and cried |
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The night he died, alone, alone |
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So Ma went down |
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To the Welfare House |
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See money got smaller |
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Since Frankie killed himself |
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And Dad blamed Ma |
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Put her head through a wall, put her head through a wall |
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I came up slow behind |
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Moving awfully quiet |
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I remember the summer crickets |
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I stabbed him thirty times |
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My name is Hank Low |
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I was thirteen years old |
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I was the night watchman |
