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Horse Feathers - Curs in the Weeds

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

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