![]() You wear the pants and sweaters and shirts of an old man. You look for something to lead you from the dark. And you read religious text-the Bible, Koran or fictionalized tales of End Times, Thich Nhat Hanh, giddy Buddhist koans, Krishna, book of Mormon, the Torah. Chang gave you, but faking happy every night. You're fighting it though, eating the pills Dr. She's driving you to go wild, to be good and be crazy. Then comes chill of dawn with light over purple hills to the east and you pull the covers back up your face is a swollen mess. ![]() Drink 'til everything goes muffled and warm and good and you sing to yourself and rock happy and alone on the couch. But she's off with the older kids across the club, in the back of the bar, the ones who've figured it out … while you seek the dark spots and rotting, doomed faces destined to grow old and sit in hospital beds connected to tubes and wires, yellow piss bags, sludged shit, coughing a paint can rattle, wondering if it was worth it and whether they could've done better. They buy you drinks because your name is in the magazines they read. "I feel like getting in a car and driving away," she says.ĭon't leave me, don't leave me, you don't leave me, don't you leave me, don't leave.Īt night, at clubs and bars, you drink with friends. "What do you need me for anymore?" she says. "I feel like I've got a demon in my head," you say. "We need to get out of this city," she says. "You need to go to the doctor," she says. "Nothing I once loved makes me happy anymore," you say. "I feel like a bird in a cage," she says. "I don't know what's wrong with me," you say. "You haven't been happy in months," she says. Shadowed reapers crouch on wheelbarrowed mine tracks or lie lurking in mine cars, phantom great-grandfathers, black-eyed, Slavic, square-faced, gray-haired, beckoning with crook of finger saying, "Have a drink with me, kid. With late winter comes spiders in your synapses skittering down brain tubes to eat at happiness, ideas, sex drive, energy, ambition, passion-youth gone shriveled and frozen like rock gravel crunching beneath your sneakers and you're walking to that mine that killed your great-grandfather, black-lunged Pennsylvania coal mine, its mouth empty and fanged, and its throat runs straight down. The wine bottle is rising from between your legs like a dark-glassed lighthouse and you laugh, your teeth slop red-black of wine and crooked smile. Shall hear us, as they go rushing past.Fuck your deadlines. The fray, boys, we'll face them to the last, And our comrades brave ![]() We'll show what Uncle Sam has for loyal boys to do. Will meet the rebel host, boys, with fearless hearts and true, And ![]() We bear the glorious stars for the Union and the right, Shouting theĭown with the traitor, up with the star For we're marching to theįield, boys, going to the fight Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. We're going to the fight, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom And Battle Song We are marching to the field, boys, So we're springing to the call from theĮast and from the West, And we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land Our numbers the loyal, true and brave, And altho' they may be poor, WeĪre springing to the call of our Brothers gone before, And we'llįill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more. The flag, boys, rally once again, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. CHORUS: The Union forever, Hurrah! boys, hurrah!ĭown with the traitor and up with the star While we rally 'round Rally from the hillside, we'll gather from the plain, Shouting theīattle-cry of freedom. We'll rally once again, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom We will Rallying Song Yes, we'll rally 'round the flag, boys, Published his autobiography, The Story of a Musical Life, in 1891. Sentimental ballad was "Rosalie, the Prairie Flower." He Tramp! Tramp!" and other songs of the period, including "Justīefore the Battle, Mother" and "There's Music in the Air,īoys." He later wrote hymns and cantatas. Root (1820-1895) wrote the popular Union marching song "Tramp! Meetings, and in camp the second was a marching song. The first version was sung at patriotic gatherings, at conscription Song for civilians, the other a "battle" song for soldiers. Root composed two different versions, one a "rallying" To a rousing patriotic tune and was probably the best loved of Union The Flag, Boys," was written by George F. "Battle Cry of Freedom," also known as "Rally Round MLA style: "Battle Cry of Freedom." The Free Library.
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