Bad Son

Turning off the belt line weatherworn and running low.
Scent of the shore pine; evidence I'm home.
You say, "It's the bad son. Now returning to the coast."
I say we're not done 'til you're giving up the ghost.

Error free and divine.
See the ditch already dug.
Clear as a street sign; it's written all over
your mug.
She's staggering back.
"It's me, your baby."
Drink slips from her hand.
"Don't call me crazy..."
Hear shattering glass.
"Cause you made me."

Hits you swift as strychnine.
Soaks you as the downpour.
Dig me a gold mine.
Here's to many, many more.
Crimson lips to rose wine.
Blue-blind and so smug.
You're on the decline; it's written all over
your mug.

She's staggering back.
"It's me, your baby."
Drink slips from her hand.
"Don't call me crazy..."
Hear shattering glass.
"Cause you made me."