Don't start to hit me with your "no can do"
Bluesin', losin', workin' up an attitude
Clean up them windows, let the sun shine through
There ain't no happy time without no pain
Pick up the pieces, hit the road again,
The world is what you make it
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
- John McCrae, May 3, 1915.
Seems everybody's joggin' or heavy into health shit
Don't tell me that I ought to get rolfed
'Cause I love Cajun martinis
And playin' afternoon golf
We are the people
There isn't any doubt
We are the people
They still can't figure out…