Model Son - Latin Quarter

I grew up with a scorpion behind me

Sting in my rib-cage, the moment I drew air

Within his means there was nothing he denied me

But nothing was all we’d ever share

I couldn’t be a model son

Models have no self-motivation

They ride little trains on endless tracks

I had my own route, my own destination

In kidd or blood he claimed a distant cousin

Shipping lumber, tramp steam, out of Jacksonville

And he showed me reefs and hitches by the dozen

But the knots that he tied in me, they’re tighter still

I couldn’t be a model son

Models learn no self-preservation

They live by grace on feet of clay

Needed my own rock, to tangle with temptation

But tempted, stung to action

Leaving home and stung some more

So we have danced it down the decades

Mother, father, son and squaw

I grew up with a scorpion behind me

Sting in my rib-cage, the moment I drew air

And tipped in ink indelibly he signed me

The blue-print of another son somewhere