The wind, it whispers like a choir of hags,
under the light of the moonbeams,
there lay a broken child.
In his filth, he mutters,
in his dirt, he shudders,
so quick to judge we are,
the Prodigy Son.

Crackling trees and dried up leaves,
under the light of the moonbeams,
they shelter the child.
It cannot be said,
that the everlasting dead,
can't raise the living youth,
and show them how to be alive.

Out of the furnace and into the fire,
one mans plight is another mans pleasure.
Buried beneath garbage, recycled from his head,
his undeniable will is hard to measure.

The chatter is growing louder,
among the who's and what's,
the where's and when's,
the how's and why's,
they're racing round,
throwing sand,
throwing stones,
blasting the boy,
the fears he holds,
the anger he stores,
they set the trees on fire,
the dry leaves burn ten fold,
it's a hot box,
a red hot forge,
it melts his skin and bones,
then dies as quick as it caught,
and from the ashes, the Imperfect Son is born.

Rising above the smoldering orange embers,
under the white light of the moonbeams,
there stands the Imperfect Son,
and he washes his hands with mud.