The skies have darkened
|
and the seas have dried.
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Your honest ways have turned to lies.
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Your hands of promise
|
turned to hands of pain.
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You take for granted the life that God create
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The life that God created.
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The frost and flowers
|
Mother gave to you,
|
the muffled whispers bleeding true.
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And it doesn't matter how
|
what kind of eyes your looking through.
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Do you see our Mother's dying?
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Here's a picture for you.
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I wanna paint this picture for you!
|
|
With every black choking for breath
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and every inch closer to death.
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Her hands are held out for you.
|
|
(solo)
|
|
You said the reasons
|
we're in the cities that we all made
|
was that we rage our poor Mother.
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Poor Mother.
|
Poor Mother.
|
Now that she's leaving
|
and she's thrown off all that she gave,
|
we dig the grave
|
of our poor Mother!
|
The grass ain't growing
|
in my front yard, no.
|
Poor Mother.
|
Poor Mother.
|
Poor Mother.
|
|
-----------------
|
Mother
|
| Blind Melon |
