By the time you were born there were four other siblings,
with your mama awaiting your daddy in jail.
And your oldest brother was away at a home.
And you didn't meet him til you were nineteen years old.
Old enough to know better, old enough to know better.
But you took to his jaw line and long sandy hair.
And he made you feel like none of the others,
and the way he looked at you touched you deep down in there.
So you jumped on his bike and rolled into the sunset,
but the sequel it started with the next morning sun.
And the dew on the bike seat and you all a glow
from the love he put in you and a life on the run.
So you moved to a small town, and then to another
and then to another, with another on it's way.
And you both swore to God you would keep it together
and the state wouldn't take your babies away.
Now, the District Attorney said he might have forgiven.
You had lots of reasons to turn out this way.
But you'll both go to jail for them four little babies
you made and delivered along the way.
Last night you had a dream of a Lord so forgiving,
He might show compassion for a heathen he damned.
You awoke in a jail cell, alone and so lonely.
Seven years in Michigan.