They say it's in the altitude yet I'm not entirely sure,
when the disposition turns to gray
and you can't take any more.
We're all gathered at the family feast,
In the heart of our backyard,
on the other side of the least of these,
in the shadow of the working poor.
In memorial to the long deceased
from the general to the theatre's bard,
Let something inside of us fade, decrease,
let our heads be grounded and let our spirits soar!
They say it's somewhere in the altitude,
yet I'm not entirely sure-
When the dispositions are willow gray,
and you find that you can't take it anymore,
Then they'll blame it on your attitude,
that it's a degree above poor,
Again with repetition malaise at the end of another war,
At the end of war.
Written by Richard Beattie
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