Small Empires · Album · Track 8
9 Aug 2026 · 4:09 · Synth-pop · 151 plays
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Lyrics
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He's four. He's furious.
Bricks all over the floor, bedtime, no.
And he does the thing I do —
the jaw, the pause, the flat voice,
and he shuts the bedroom door
exactly hard enough to say it.
I have never taught him that.
He has never seen me not do it.
You can lecture till your throat gives out.
They're not listening. They're filming —
He learned it from you. (learned it from you)
Not the speeches. Not the rules.
He learned the way you handle
a bad hour on a plain evening.
Learned it from you. (learned it from you)
Every habit gets a free ride
into somebody else's life.
And I got mine off a good man
at a sink in 'ninety-four,
a particular long sigh
I now own completely.
He'd be gutted if he knew.
He never sat me down and taught it.
It moved like a language
through a house where no one spoke.
So the fixing's not in telling.
The fixing's in the doing, watched —
He'll be doing it at forty
in a house you'll never stand in,
to a person you'll never meet.
That's the gift that's terrifying.
That's the one already given.
So I knelt down on the toy bricks
and I said sorry to a four-year-old —
out loud, full sentence, no excuse.
And he looked at me like a man
watching something being installed.
Let's make sure it's that. Let's make sure it's that.
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