I filled my canteen with the copper green. Only my dear friends know just what I mean. We burnt a brand new tambourine, on some search for vaccine.
I woke with a mind so mean and I thought about getting clean.
We sang we’ve got some fire in our eyes, the sun went away and refused to rise, the river sang but she don’t know English and that’s alright cause it’s her homeland anyway and if anything we should have been singing in her language of strong, strong, strong, strong water.
And so hold on, un-callous gold one. Don’t tie me down. You know I’ll be around.
1994, in Tulsa, your mom lived in a motel, cash wasn’t how she paid the rent you know she played it off so well. Your dad took the pickup, never said goodbye, left her a couple daughters and a fresh new shiny black eye.
Nights were spent by the lake, sometimes you’d be there for the sun rise. She’d wrap you all in a blanket and she’d wipe the tears from her green eyes. She’d have a staring contest with the dawn. She’d take off her wedding ring and she’d put it back on. She’d say:
“I’ve got two daughters with the same last name as mine, and I fear their future habits as I claw at the coattails of time...
Lord, this is not what I had planned. How could this be what you planned? Where is my savior? Where is my man? Where are you god? Because I really do not see you in this land.”
No more sage brush fright. A ziploc full of white crosses. A keyless maroon valiant helped you all escape into the night.
I’m glad that she split, I’m glad that you’re her kid. And I’m glad you’re my woman and I’m glad that you know this.
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