A company of skeletons in rags
March home under tattered white flags.
Dusty Bibles and deep empty pockets,
Dark dreams and deeper eye sockets.
We ain’t right in the head and our women lay dead.
We’re the losers who chose The Lost Cause
But Home wasn’t built in a day.
It’s the hard price of pride that we pay.
No more cornbread, culture or cotton.
And nothing here grows but fingernails in our coffins.
Old warriors tell ghost stories, old ghosts tell war stories.
Such is the case, The Lost Cause.
No government cheese and no cow.
Just acres of skulls and a plow.
But Bluegrass, we’ve grown used to you.
While the tree roots unearth the graves they grow through.
Now our bright, sunny South tastes copper in her mouth.
No we’ll never forget our Lost Cause.
And the vulturous picking at bones.
Lone chimneys like headstones for homes
Make those tattered white flags that hung at half mast
Beat red with the blood sucked up through the staff
From the dirt where they plant us.
“Sic Semper Tyrannis!”
May we one day avenge our Lost Cause.

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