| Song | Family Portrait |
| Artist | Radical Face |
| Album | The Family Tree: The Roots |
| So we start with my father as a boy | |
| Barely spoke a word of English | |
| Fell in love from a distance | |
| He watched her working from the back fence | |
| He learned some words | |
| And some clever turns of phrase | |
| From his father’s book of poets | |
| She wasn’t taken in that instant | |
| But grew impressed with his persistence | |
| They met each other out by moonlight | |
| Made love in the nearby woods | |
| Then the folks became suspicious | |
| When her cycle broken so young (?) | |
| They stole away without their goodbyes | |
| Got married in a foreign town | |
| Made their way as best as they could | |
| Found jobs and settled down | |
| And then time moved on | |
| I was born in a river of blood | |
| On sheets from the wedding day | |
| The room was dark and the stench was thick | |
| My father couldn’t stand the smell of it | |
| Mama died in the night cos the nearest | |
| Doctor couldn’t stem the blood loss | |
| Father cried out on the back porch | |
| My sister held me at the neighbor’s house | |
| Oh my, there was a storm then | |
| It was a flood of a different kind | |
| Father’s eyes were often vacant | |
| But his hands were rarely quiet | |
| Sister learned to take her hits well | |
| Both from life and the physical kind | |
| But I was never one to lie down | |
| Despite who picked the fight | |
| So we designed our hells | |
| Father turned into a drinker | |
| A dark bastard with a wooden heart | |
| Sister learned to be a mother | |
| Before she’d ever played another part | |
| And I became a little terror | |
| I lashed out at whatever’s around | |
| Took some time before I settled | |
| And found a mind that was somewhat sound | |
| And as it always does | |
| Time rushed on | |
| Six years later father died in the very same bedroom | |
| Many said it was the grief that did it | |
| I have to say it’s cos he hung himself | |
| To be honest neither sister or myself | |
| Ever much regret his passin’ | |
| But I admit it was a nice thing | |
| To always know that we could feed ourselves |
| So we start with my father as a boy | |
| Barely spoke a word of English | |
| Fell in love from a distance | |
| He watched her working from the back fence | |
| He learned some words | |
| And some clever turns of phrase | |
| From his father' s book of poets | |
| She wasn' t taken in that instant | |
| But grew impressed with his persistence | |
| They met each other out by moonlight | |
| Made love in the nearby woods | |
| Then the folks became suspicious | |
| When her cycle broken so young ? | |
| They stole away without their goodbyes | |
| Got married in a foreign town | |
| Made their way as best as they could | |
| Found jobs and settled down | |
| And then time moved on | |
| I was born in a river of blood | |
| On sheets from the wedding day | |
| The room was dark and the stench was thick | |
| My father couldn' t stand the smell of it | |
| Mama died in the night cos the nearest | |
| Doctor couldn' t stem the blood loss | |
| Father cried out on the back porch | |
| My sister held me at the neighbor' s house | |
| Oh my, there was a storm then | |
| It was a flood of a different kind | |
| Father' s eyes were often vacant | |
| But his hands were rarely quiet | |
| Sister learned to take her hits well | |
| Both from life and the physical kind | |
| But I was never one to lie down | |
| Despite who picked the fight | |
| So we designed our hells | |
| Father turned into a drinker | |
| A dark bastard with a wooden heart | |
| Sister learned to be a mother | |
| Before she' d ever played another part | |
| And I became a little terror | |
| I lashed out at whatever' s around | |
| Took some time before I settled | |
| And found a mind that was somewhat sound | |
| And as it always does | |
| Time rushed on | |
| Six years later father died in the very same bedroom | |
| Many said it was the grief that did it | |
| I have to say it' s cos he hung himself | |
| To be honest neither sister or myself | |
| Ever much regret his passin' | |
| But I admit it was a nice thing | |
| To always know that we could feed ourselves |