Beneath a knife-lit ceiling I watch the rest of my son.
The family portrait face is peeling off
burned by the things I know he's done.

I tried to raise a human being,
but pills taught my boy wrong from right,
and since no-one else sees him as I do,
he waived his right to life.

I told him not to play with guns, but did he listen to me?
If he is me, then I am him; I am the monster he has been.
I've been locked up all these years for the things that he's done.
Now as they lead us to the end,
I die with my son.