rhs

dinner at eight was okay, before the toast full of blames.
it was great until those old magazines got us started up again.
actually, it was probably me again.
why is it so? that i've always been the one who must go?
that i've always been the one told to flee?
when it fact, you were the one long ago,
actually, in the drifting white snow, who left me?

so put up your fists and i'll put up mine,
no running away from the scene of the crime.
god's chosen a place, somewhere near the end of the world,
somewhere near the end of our lives, but until then,
no, daddy, dont be surprised if i want to see the tears in your eyes.
then i know it had to be, long ago,
actually, in the drifting white snow,
you loved me.