My baby's teething in the den,   and I'm to give him what's mine.   He wasn't meant to walk with men   (doctors brought him round again).      In his eyes there is a cure,   to all the troubles in this home.   It'll haunt my every bone,   force me through the great unknown.      With a different name,   in a different place,   and a different way,   living different days.      With a rifle to stay,   a rifle to go.   Find a fire to tend,   and a martyr to mend.      Find a body to bend   in a million ways,   'til the thrill of a million   has faded away.      With the birth of a child   comes the end of an age,   like turning a phrase,   that erases a rage.