(B. Walkenhorst)

Down through our histories we have been told

That women hold mysteries men cannot know

But boys learn true secrecy, how to hide lies

In cracks in their souls and behind shaded eyes

That filter all light through the sins of their fathers

Shining on down on good sons and daughters

We were true believers that this song of gold

Was a high holy fever that purified the soul

But peace turned to piss off, equality a laugh

As girls danced a-go-go to our golden calf

We borrowed the tune from the hymns of our fathers

We are not rebels, just good sons and daughters

The revolution came, the revolution went

Not meant for all, just that fifty percent

That drew the dots from pin-ups from porno to rape

And bought into Hollywood and Hefner's sly hate

Millions of Marilyns who died for their lovers

Seducing a culture of good sons and daughters

Reading through the paper and I happened to see

A police-artist's sketch that looked a whole lot like me

So I started dodging questions, lying on top of lies

And I bought what I thought was a good alibi

I never knew your mother, your sister or daughter

I ain't no killer

I'm a good son