J. Tillman - Your Mother's Ghost

Oh, my son
Heed these words
My father never shared them with his own
Take this bread
Drink this wine
Let the blood run down your throat and up your spine

There's a ghost
On my lips
She gives me wisdom
To guide your steps

If I had been
A godly man
It could have spared your mother
From my drunken hands
And as we dig
Her casket's bed
Oh think upon my sins for which she paid

There's a ghost
Upon my lips
She gives me wisdom
To guide your steps

Oh, my son
Heed these words
My father never shared them with his own