Children Of Children

Pictures of the farm before us Old men in a gospel chorus Sepia and saddle horses Easy on the reins

Eighty-one, a motor inn, your momma's 17 again She's squinting at the dusty wind The anger of the plains

You and I were almost nothing Pray to God the Gods were bluffing Seventeen ain't old enough to reason with the pain How could we expect the two to stay in love When neither knew the meaning of The difference between 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

I didn't mean to break the cycle At 17, I went by Michael No one ever called me by my own name anyway Five 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