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
