help isn't coming on horseback,
golden sun lighting its path.

help isn't a tall, strong man
with money and a nice warm laugh

help is small, futile,
lodged within my chest
buried by desperation
and poverty
and nowhere to go.

The hero is me. The knight is me,
with my worn secondhand clothing,
and aging face and creased frown
heart aching still from so many lies
come to California, now I'll die in California.
But I'll still have child's eyes.

Can't just die. My babies--
I led them in,
now I must get them out of Hell!

They dreamed of fresh, flourishing fields
enough extra money to have garments with lace!
but now they have broken hearts
seeping through their child's faces !

Stop me if I hope too much
I don't want to hurt so much
God knows I dreamed so much
God knows I earned so much !

I'll give the last of my bread
sing broken lullabies to calm my children's fear
I'll die over and over and over and over
so that my babies don't have to stay here.

I'm sorry that we don't have a shopping list
I'm sorry that you go to bed hungry
I'm sorry that life is like it is

I'm sorry that I got you into this.