It's Not My Fault
As the hot wind blew, and the child’s golden coiffure looked dry
But all my money was kaput, and the hot sun wouldn't let me cry
Should I have left the child to find his way back home?
Because deep in the desert is what they call home.
I don’t know how I got here, maybe I had been deported in my dreams
The child hadn't spoken; all there was were silent screams
I shouldn't have helped a stranger
I couldn't even tak