Curs in the Weeds

Lover of things
 Won't you agree
 How the winter could bring
 The darkest spring?
 With hell on your face
 Dirt on the walls
 In the back of the place
 You grew and complained
 Father of three
 Won't you believe
 That the ones in between
 The ones that are blamed
 Of fickle faith
 Cynics that seethe
 How their children are cursed
 Cursed to believe
 It's like marrow without bone
 To live in a house with no home
 Where the son is the darkest seed
 He crawls with the curs in the weeds
 Where had you been son?
 Not in the street, not in the yard
 Only once, I'll call off the dogs, if you call off your guard
 Where had you gone?
 Where had you been?