My ancestors have all passed away
I'm lonely and lost in our past of gray
I've inherited a thousand acres of marshlands
Thoughts just as crushing as my harsh hands
Sad as the rainy wind of late November
My pale fire burning without no ember
The curse of my family is in the blood
I keep walking my swamps, stuck in the mud
Walking the footsteps of generations of hurt
Come down and see my own nations of dirt
And when I finally drown in the mire
Witness these wetlands catch fire