Shooting rabbits from the arms of torn couches.

I've got a lot to live up to.
There's a lot of poisoned minds running these towns from office apartments,
out-a' state.
One summer the well dried, guns were made and history was written.
Lots of paper, but not enough ink.
Too many old men and not enough kids.
The local paper was a grave and my family was tied to the page.
Shooting rabbits from the arms of torn couches and then collapsing in the relief of blood.
I've got no recollection of past misfortune.
Stay out till dawn, when the sky cracks and the moon can walk free again.
Then walk home blurry eyed, stumbling through memories that are cold to touch.
Cold like the hands of your mother when she tucked you in, when the fields were full and the blankets warm.
Cold like the blade that brought the silence of your fathers tongue, as he had to leave, and told you to stay inside.
Cold like the carelessness that brought war into your streets;
And when the rain came, and washed away the city's blood, the well grew full like our stomachs;
And we lived. once again.