The Sins of the parents are in full bloom,

And the parents are desperately trying to get out of the room
The parents are children
They can’t be trusted
To see the truth of the things
That they’ve busted
And like children
They’re prone to a tantrum
When they don’t get what they want
A tantrum’s their anthem.

The parents are children
But their sins are mature
They’ve created and supported
And shouted for war
But the worst ones have,
Like children
Pretend,
That their choices were Noble
And could not have led to this end.

But, still worse, and gravest of all of the Sins
Is their willful deception
Of how it begins
And their indignant opinions
That they take for truth
And feed to their children
As if sick from the flu
They decide that their children
Are just like them
And they don’t give a thought
To what it means is they’re not
Or, even more, how good it might be
If their children, from them,
Were eternally free
Instead they build bunkers of hate
To surround their kids
And to keep them safe
But by safe what they mean,
These child parents,
Is same, same as them
Like little pet plants

The Sins of the parents
Are in full bloom
Their refusal to look
Beyond their own gloom
Only entrenches their children
To a similar Doom
And as they all scramble
To exit the room
All pointing their fingers
And teaching the rule
That it’s not you that that’s
The problem
It’s some other fool.

The Sins of the parents are in full bloom.