Don't Speak ill of the Dead

Wielding words like butchers knives into the room
I held you though you patronised
And spoke ill of the dead
In my arms the tundra thawed
The table rocked
A generation was reborn
A well earned rest the mocking ceased

What became of baby ray
when the father fired his shots
Was it for fame and money that a lineage was lost
Where are you returning to the sweet spot of the day
It takes more than just hopeful notions to love without delay

Retreating like an argument into a shell
Our misinterpretations cast out for words are spells
Dissolving ill timed ego trips
We fuelled the flood
I hoped it would remove your hood
The settling suds

What became of baby ray
When the father fired his shots
Was it for fame and money that a lineage was lost
What was it that dropped them to a place of no reprieve
Was it for lack of trying that their bond became diseased
Where are you returning to the sweet spot of the day
It takes more than just hopeful notions for us not to be afraid
It takes more than just hopeful notions to love without delay