The Bourgeois Decadence Of Depression Letra

to fight The Good Fight.
He can still cry when he talks about Lenin,
he can still weep for the heroic Palestinians.
Take the Albatross from my neck.
This bird represents more than the deceased.
Twenty-Three years is a Dante's eternity,
when you're systematically kicked in the teeth.
It's been seven long months since Grandad's death,
that is seven endless months holding my breath.
And it's hard to fight for liberty,
when a broken heart politically paralyzes me.
His hope is rising
in direct proportion to my grief.
He's planning for the victory
and I've already accepted the defeat.
Could I be as strong as Bobby Sands?
Or as noble as Crystal Lee Sutton?
Could I really die for The Cause?
Take a hot one like Li'l Bobby Hutton?