If she should come and greet me again,
with the pains of this world writ 'cross all her limbs,
like a bewildered child I'd hold her in mine and stroke her sweet head evermore.
Bound unto wonder,
we'd carelessly stray,
like low-rolling shadows through the end of our days.
There's trumpets in heaven,
six feet underground,
mighty and muddy,
they faintly resound.
And love and love like proud flying doves,
with hearts full of pebbles and feathers and mud.
Though there's bedlam beneath us,
and no sky above,
just a dark f*cking hollow that smothers and gusts.
The flag, the flag, the olde dirty flag,
we lay down like dry stalks 'neath that stick and that rag.
Shine up them buttons,
baby bury the band,
and the flag, the flag, and the olde dirty flag.