Father's hands are lined with dirt. From long days in the field. Mother's hands are serving meals. In a cafe on Main Street. With mouths to feed. Just trying to keep clothing on our backs.
Baby's born on a bathroom floor. Her mother prays that it'll never cry. But nothing's wrong, you've got your prom dress on. When they ask you'll say 'it isn't mine'.
You'll be a wolf devoured by a lion. Cause you look like a lamb. But baptized in fire. Fearing yet hoping the best. Has swallowed you asleep once again.