A simple decision
I came to accept at a younger age than known
I don’t remember my earlier birthdays
But since it fell in place
September, November, December
Then it’s a depressional season alone
If it were up to me, when I reached seven
I would have been heavenly gone
And you ask me
Will I be coming home for the holidays?
Holidays, they come, they go
For smiles and snow, a New York warmth
I’d trade with any convict doing death row
You punish me, but it seems to be
Something more than mischief
A flaw in your parental morals
Let’s graph the hope held in each poor child
You and I
We have-nots were claimed as plurals
Life long friends
How much more can we endure pal
Do you no longer ask
If I’ll be home for the holidays
This is for your birthday, each passing Christmas
The wars in which you continue to enlist us
The days you missed us
The casualties whom bit the dust
The individuals whom pissed on trust
For those entitled to this imperishable crush
Will you be home for the holidays?
Categories:
depressional, family, forgiveness, life, music,
Form: Ballad