Son of a Junkie, Son of a Drunk

I'll think of you on your birthday.
I'll sing, even though you have no idea who I am;
I'm a stranger to you, but to me...
You're a part of my soul.

Your mother's off in a filthy part of town,
Sticking needles in her veins, and barely remembering
That you're her middle son,
Her not-so-baby-boy, anymore.

And your "keep ya on my shelf" so-called father,
In a drunken stupor, pretends he always cared
But passes on the blame
To that one night stand of a junkie.

There's been no one to care about you
Since that has-been-whore spread her legs wide
And let you out; a screaming, wailing mess
Some twenty years ago, 'cause you never kept count.

But me? I write you a tribute for every damn year;
I'm the only one who ever cared about your shitty life.
You'll resent me for having everything,
And I'll resent that you gave up

'Cause even in that sneering, glaring picture,
From what must be a lifetime ago for you,
I don't need to know you
To know you've never had hope.