There's a saltwater film on the jar of your ashes I threw them to sea,
But a gust blew them backwards and the sting in my eyes that you then
Inflicted was par for the course just as when you were living.

It's no stretch to say you were not quite a father,
But a donor of seeds to a poor single mother that would
Raise us alone.
We never saw the money that went down your throat through the hole in your belly.

13 years old in the suburbs of Denver, standing in line for
Thanksgiving dinner at the Catholic church the servers wore crosses
To shield from the sufferance plaguing the others
Styrofoam plates cafeteria tables, charity wreaths of cheap wine and pity,
And I'm thinking of you I do every year when we count all our
Blessings and I wonder what we're doing here.

You're a disgrace to the concept of family the priest
Won't divulge the fact in his homily and I'll stand up
And scream if the mourning remain quiet,
You can deck out a lie in a suit but I won't buy it
I won't join in the procession that's speaking their peace
Using five dollar words while praising his integrity,
Just cause he's gone doesn't change the fact:
He was a bastard in life, thus a bastard in death.

Writer : WALLA, CHRISTOPHER
Copyright : Lyrics © EMI Music Publishing