Well even in this place brand new,
the Oklahoma roots show through.
And you never meant to be so wild,
never thought you’d strike the child.
And in the corner as she cries.
You blame it on the family tree.
The Irish mixed with Cherokee.
And woman no one likes to watch you going down.
You try to hide it but it’s just to small a town.
Still they come knocking on your door.
A little softer than before.
And Arizona morning sun can clear away the wrongs we’ve done.
You survive Wisconsin winter nights.
Referee the endless fights.
And bring your children to be tried.
In Texas you can change your name.
But have the nightmares just the same.
And she’s been running now since she was just fifteen.
You know she’s frightened but you don’t know what she’s seen.
Still they come knocking on your door.
Not quite as often anymore.
And now at night you’re on your own.
You work your anger out alone.
And though you’re older still you don’t know what you’ve done, no.
And if you’re angry well you’re not the only one.
Still they come knocking on your door.
Once or twice then nothing more.
I sing a song of memories.
Pillow fights and climbing trees.
And Sunday morning breakfast gowns.
Moving to another town.
And watching as we all fall down.
It leaves the family wondering,
“well where’s the child at twenty-three?”
And your misfortune is you tried to really care, didn’t you?
You miss her badly, but you hate it when she’s there.
Still they come knocking on your door,
you know exactly what it’s for.
And they’ll come knocking on your door
’till you’re not listening anymore.