The Prodigal Son

Well i've been a disclaimer for twenty-four years.
Poor mother drowned in a pillow of tears.
I'm well known in story, famous in song.
The black sheep, the blemish, the one who went wrong.
My crime is discomfort and a mind ill at ease; old crow on my shoulder, genetic disease.
My siblings, my rivals might tend to my wake, but grieve me not brothers, i's mother's mistake.
And all the grand expectations of an epoch of wealth leaves me long to crawl back to the womb.
Well i've tasted your grace placed it back on the shelf.
Drag your pedigree lives to your tomb.
Well i came from this city a victim of peace but i've grown far too filthy to attend to the feast.
So i'll take to the hills to live savage and free.
I don't need nobody, nobody needs me.
I don't need nobody, nobody needs me.