On this little cold parcel of land
where our father's fathers lived
The same old trees scraping innocently
since our grandparents were kids.
You were born in a terrible storm
and your Ma said "It's a sign."
You're never at peace with your back facing east
and your itchy feet like mine.
We should change our names and go for guts and glory,
never cut our hair, or give a care for right.
'Cause they've got us by the throat, they've got us on a tight rope.
You can tell your furious father,
he can have my guts for garters if he likes.
Some need, like the trunk of a tree, to accumulate alone,
and in time grow ripe on the vine
and I think we might be those.
On this cold little parcel of land
where our father's fathers lived
We scrape our knees climbing innocent trees
Like our father's fathers did
We should change our names and go for guts and glory
Never cut our hair, or give a care for right.
Cause they've got us by the throat, they've got us on a tight rope
You can tell your furious father he can have my guts for garters if he likes
You can tell your furious father he can have my guts for garters if he likes.
