Pops had a way of closing doors that made the whole house listen I learned it young Palm on the handle Psalm on the mantle Don’t slam it Keep it shut The anger’s in the cupboard locked up with the golden knives He brings those out for guests We got plastic all our lives Red apple Bad apple Cut me open Plant the seeds Red apple Bad apple Cut me The apple doesn’t fall It drops Hits dirt Bruises taste sweet Rolls two feet from the tree Then there’s me Got his teeth in my mouth his blood in my cheek One bad branch One good knife One bad batch One good My mother sliced them thin Round and round and round One long red ribbon hanging to the ground She never broke it I always do So I planted all them seeds where nobody could see Watered them with anger Trimmed them with insecurity Now the roots run through the main choking when it rains And every time the wind blows every time I hear the old man coming through The apple doesn’t fall It drops Hits dirt Bruises taste sweet Rolls two feet From the tree Then there’s me got his teeth in my mouth his blood in my cheek Red apple Bad apple I know the tree I know the tree I know the tree It grew up me
