The Garden - Vic Chesnutt

Pus on your finger, mud on your mind

The tiller is broken, your garden is crying

There’s been too much rain, tomatoes they split

Spring was a beauty but she turned into a beast

Your boy is rebellious, he refuses to work

Your daughter is a fine one but allergic to dirt

The Preacher came a’calling, he wants a fresh ham

Your wife she obliges, thaws the one you was saving

So you piddle in the garden, you pick at the ground

Your family is fighting, oh, but you don’t hear a sound