Other well-known and classic Civil War songs by Root are “ Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!” ( The Prisoner’s Hope), “ The Vacant Chair,” and “ Just before the Battle, Mother.” His “ The Battle Cry of Freedom” was arguably the most popular of his many compositions. RootRoot was a prolific patriotic composer, eventually writing over 200 songs. You hold her hand as you walk past 7-11 and say, "Okay, okay sorry, so selfish, let's go, okay let's go. All we need are Dos Gusanos this afternoon" and you're fading fast. Take a look around everybody is sad as you. We'll finish off the bottle and the agaves too. She tries one last time, singing the old songs, singing, "Come away with me. Your muscles fade and flesh falls off the bone, drops like fruit gone to rot.
You shake your pill bottle and toss it in your jacket pocket. 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.
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