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Two kinds of children, one Father Two kinds of drought, but one water Each mocking in our own way, scoffers Each chasing down a different offer Some of us write like we’re the author Even though the jar is not the potter Some of us are wild and we wander Taking what we’re given with to squander Everybody knows about the runner Running in the fast lane, tryna feed his hunger Gunning for his dad’s pay, racking up the numbers Spending big til that day the money went under He wonders living in the slums where he slumbers Can the debt he collected be covered But there is grace even down in the gutter Thank God that he loves the younger brother Home I felt so far from home I heard you call me home When I felt alone With all the debts I owed You ran to bring me home
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