3rf

Lyrics

​Genre: Dark Americana / Narrative Folk
Tempo: Mid-tempo, building to a frantic pace
​(Verse 1)
My father shook the General’s hand in a parlor paved with gold
He said, "My son’s a spirited lad, or so I have been told.
The Spanish War’s a fever dream, a swamp of death and flies,
Send him East to Peking, where the gentle sun will rise.
A bit of drill, a bit of dress, a diplomatic stay,
To keep him from the Mauser lead in Santiago Bay."
​(Verse 2)
I packed my silk and silver plate, my boots were polished bright
I figured I’d be sipping tea and dancing through the night.
The Sixth was just a social club, or so the old man swore,
A velvet path to glory without the grit of war.
But the "Boxers" aren't a parlor trick, the spirits have been stirred,
And the "Gentle East" is screaming sounds I never should have heard.
​(Chorus)
Oh, the Tartar Wall is crumbling, and the powder’s turning black
I’d trade my father’s fortune just to find the wagon track.
I was raised for ballrooms, not for trenches and for gore,
I’m a rich man’s son a-begging at the Devil’s kitchen door.
Get me out, get me home, I can’t take it anymore!
​(Verse 3)
The Imperial City’s burning, and the water’s running low
There’s a sniper in the garden where the lilies used to grow.
My hands are blistered bloody from the shovel and the lead,
I’m sleeping in the rubble with the dying and the dead.
Father, was it worth the pride? Father, can you hear?
Your "easy post" is a slaughterhouse, and I am paralyzed with fear.
​(Bridge)
I’d crawl through every sewer pipe to see the Hudson’s side
I’d give up every acre, I have lost my family pride.
Take the carriage, take the manor, take the names upon the gate,
Just get me past the burning gates before it is too late!
​(Guitar Solo - Distorted and chaotic, mimicking the sounds of the siege)
​(Chorus)
Oh, the Tartar Wall is crumbling, and the powder’s turning black
I’d trade my father’s fortune just to find the wagon track.
I was raised for ballrooms, not for trenches and for gore,
I’m a rich man’s son a-begging at the Devil’s kitchen door.
Get me out, get me home, I can’t take it anymore!
​(Outro)
(Slow, haunting acoustic strumming)
The silver’s gone to shrapnel...
The silk is turned to rags...
Just a rich boy in a uniform...
In a city full of flags...
(Whispered) God, just get me out...