Here is my table, so square in my kitchen
I can, when I want to, revise every flaw
I wish that they leylines of my condition
Could be as stable, could be as sure
This morning I sat at that other table
(Saturday mornings find me there)
The face that faced me was made out of marble
I looked for the leylines; but nothing appeared

World it goes white, world it goes red
World it goes dark inside of my head
No-one lives there, no-one should
Nothing from nothing, you were no good

What of your father, his plastic resistance
To all of my instincts, so badly described
What of your sister, the first of your victims,
The lines of your fire you waved her inside
What of the anger that seeps from the rends
In the tearless veneers of the families you tore
Out the hearts of, now, darling, they ask me again
What was he doing that for?
What were you doing that for?

I bore you then; I still bore you now,
No light lights up in those eyes
I tried and I tried, but I couldn’t work out
The vandalized map of your mind
Now they promise me Jesus, promise me saints
All kinds of forgiveness or fires of hell
But I tell them something: nothing from nothing
And I expect nothing else

How do you find love
How do you find grace
How do you find hope in so hopeless a place
Tell me, how do I live here
No-one should
Nothing from nothing
You were no good