Pictures of the farm before us

Old men in a gospel sephia

And saddle horses easy on the reins

'81 a motor in your mama's 17 again

She's squinting at the dusty wind

The anger of the plains.

You and I were almost nothing

Pray to god that god was bluffing

17 ain't old enough to reason with the pain

How could we expect to stay in love

When neither knew the meaning

Of the difference of sacred and profane.

I was riding on my mother's hip,

She was shorter than the corn

All the years I took from her,

Just by being born.

Didn't mean to break the cycle

At 17 I went by michael

No one ever called by my own name anyway

Half full generations

Living all these expectations

Giving way to one, late to have a baby on the way.

You were riding on your mother's hip,

She was shorter than the corn

All the years you took from her,

Just by being born.