We pour out our hearts
and bare our soul
day after day
year after year
and not so much as a word.
Our mother tries to protect us
telling us he is a good man
but her lies don’t protect us
and we can’t keep waiting
for our deadbeat father to help us
we should stop wasting our time
writing unanswered letters to an idea
no matter how good that idea might be.
Let’s strap up our boots, grab our plow
till the land and plant our own garden
because, whether he was ever here or not
poppa ain’t never coming back home again
and momma needs our help.
Yes, our God is a deadbeat father
our prayers, ignored letters
sent to an address
that doesn’t exist,
lost somewhere in the mail