Come see pioneers starving on trout. Meet the drunkards of spirit, of soil, of stout. But old silent fires shall someday bathe all. A cider ferments in us all. Final call! Hear the prophets whose days have gone dim. And for all royal silver, she still won’t wed him. Hear the bastards, yes among us they go, all flaunting freedoms so scarcely known. How I see, merrily, the unmasking of liberty, as she bows to misery. Oh, her open hands, the joy and dance. And this pattern across a great quilt for ages to span. You’re a traveller packing for years, armor of rage in a shower of tears. And you never could see that you were wild and loose, ‘til a baby blue soldier forbid you to choose. Now you cry, “Off with these systems and off with these laws! Bring on the seasons, tradition, and song. The patterns and cycles. We, hitchers of stars, shall reel in adventure to shatter these bores, to march from these wars.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
