Sometimes when I fall i just ball up and spin//That's when I call upon the bottled gin//And just sip and sit 'till all I do is grin//Days like this when I spit to convince myself I win//So I can take regret and shed it 'till all do's forget//It's intense what words doctors dispense//Enuf to make even the devil repent,turn wrong men in2 somethin' descent//And ask what could prevent, what went wrong through the long descent// And a dictionary can't give what words have meant//Couldn't tell me that "miscariage" meant more than. my son's death//Couldn't tell me it'll be my death too, go indepth to//Couldn't tell me i'd wanna give the doc a big, "Fuck You!"//That I couldn't tell my wife what I wished i'd known, but no one had shown//Or that the lid on my life would be blown with strife//that i'd fantasize about knife inclined to slice and dice//over veins that entice me twice this night//...and now that bottled gin is spent// and i don't know my own intents//Hospitals, doctors wills, and suicide pills are all my pescription prevents// Who was it that miscariage killed?