you were 17 the year your father died
and he was 53 when you were 17
in the museum where you laid your head to sleep
the artifacts were cold to comfort you
when you heard them fighting you hid in the apple tree
the branches broke their noise
when your brother studied at the university
you were left all alone to realize
that while you were growing older
he was busy growing older too
ba da dum ba da da da dum
ba da dum ba da da da dum
and in the summer when your father drove you to the river
and he would sing so loud
soon to be kept silent as he climbed through barbed wire fences
to get to the river side
and while you were growing older
he was busy growing older too
ba da dum ba da da da dum
ba da dum ba da da da dum
and in february you were running late one day
and out the door you ran
leaving left unsaid the things you'd soon regret not telling
never knowing this would be your last chance
and while you were growing older he was busy growing older too
was it fair to blame the girl
was it fair to make the child choose
and when you stood next to mountains
did you swear you could hear him calling you
I am 22 and you are 53
and only blood can tell
that we are made up of strings and strands of DNA
dancing waltzes in our cells
and while you are growing older I am busy growing older too
ba da dum ba da da da dum
ba da dum ba da da da dum
ba da dum ba da da da dum
ba da dum da dum