roots I crush,
with her gift,
they bleed tears
for the deceased,
my soul...
Boiled and strained,
a pale, lifeless
piece of ginger;
it adds spice,
yet the bad son leaves;
a bitter taste, all that's left...
That bad son
I can never be,
but the bad son,
indeed, I really am!
 |
| Pic courtesy: One Bad Son, Canadian rock band |
