My son will die tonight
Wheeze and cough to the steady tune of death
Every pant closer to the end
concluding his misery
My story box is sung to me
a furnace burns and waltzes to the dream
Laughing, stepping, crushed asunder
Are the roots of future kin
Burden is a child
Born into wealth or poverty
all the same, not a shame
When the skin grows cold
rub your eyes in the gloom of night
sounds grow clear lacking aid of vision
Bedlam's factory of black and white
slices rubber into a life
My story box is sung to me
a furnace burns and waltzes to the dream
Laughing, stepping, crushed asunder
Are the roots of future kin
Burden is a child
Born into wealth or poverty
all the same, not a shame
When the skin grows cold