It's too late for me, my friends
Once I gave refuge to the notion, even for a moment
There was no turning back to comfort again
Only a lifetime of defeats, more or less spectacular
So march on to your court dates
I'll gather court dates of my own
I'll miss the ones in prisons and the ones who never made it there

The ones who said:
"Onward, comrades, to our death!"
With ruin on their breath
The weight of centuries on their tongues
Loading failed manifestos in their guns
As if defeat, repeated often, could someday mean we had won

Our history's a vacant lot littered with empty bank accounts
Sobbing parents, broken bones
Glorious songs, lengthy prison terms
A handful of moments that were truly our own
In between desperate gasping for air worth breathing and times worth living

In between desperate gasping for air worth breathing and times worth living in