Well, the ghost of Audie Murphy
Stood upon the burning tank,
As if to show how Hollywood 
Turns the bullets into blanks,
And to reassure all the orphans
With the clothes burned off their backs,
That the privileged love the destitute
As long as they know how to act.

     Sing you sinners, sing,
     Beat your broken wings;
     Look up from the ashes
     Of your dreams.

Took the highway down to Dallas,
Felt it roll away beneath my tires;
Saw the diamond-studded downtown,
Saw the sunset sky on fire.
And the big jets came in slowly,
Circling low and leisurely;
Saw the shadow cross the shoulder,
I felt the wing pass over me.

     Sing you sinners, sing,
     Beat your broken wings;
     Look up from the ashes
     Of your dreams.

Well the ghost of Walt Whitman
Was kneeling beside a stream,
Drinking from a hubcap
While an angry bluejay screamed.
Down from heaven runs a highway,
You can see the world like calico;
See the towns built on the AIDS quilt,
And fields of yellow ribbons blow.

Copyright © Thomas Anderson, Angry Young Grad Student Music