Father your failures are so grave,
They have seeped to son.
No amount of wishing,
For grace to be regained or won.
10,000 pounds of hope,
On the shoulders of one.

It's clear to me,
How the son has gone to seed.
It's clear to me,
How the roots shape the tree.
If I found a penance to be paid,
If I found a payment to be made.

There's no real letter to write,
To no real father of mine.
With no real things,
It's hard not to think.
With no real things,
It's hard not to sing.

Father your failures are so grave,
They have seeped to son.
No amount of wishing,
For grace to be regained or won


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