Your Father, the Bombardier Video (MV)

You were born a photograph
A vignette of a train-of-thought
In silver nitrate and old stop-bath
To your poor mother, her paper heart
Soaked through with all of the blood
And tears of years of looking back

And how your father, the bombardier
In love with his little plane
That flew the whole of all our fears
He took off and set you free
But not before he gave you a name
And sealed your fate, and taught you shame

You were taught such awful lies
We were all taught such awful lies
You grew up in kodachrome
And coloured by the things that you were
And held in place by what you are