My father was a vagabond,
Though I watched his car pull in each afternoon
And he laid by my mother each night
He wandered from place to place
In search of one thing,
Not a home
But an escape
From what?
A child will never know
Yet I can begin to understand
He was trying to escape himself
But as we all learn
You can't escape your mind.
In his search he lost his home,
Though it was hardly a home to begin with.
My father was a vagabond,
His fists found home in the walls
And his feet found home at the bars
It cost him far more than he could afford
And it is much too late
To build a home now.
I'm tired of saying sorry,
When those are the words we needed to hear.
