A writer must “know and have an ever-present consciousness that this world is a world of fools and rogues… tormented with envy, consumed with vanity; selfish, false, cruel, cursed with illusions… He should free himself of all doctrines, theories, etiquettes, politics…” —Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914?). “The nobility of the writer's occupation lies in resisting oppression, thus in accepting isolation” —Albert Camus (1913-1960). “What are you gonna do” —Bertha Brown (1895-1987).
Let Them In by John Gorka (Based on a poem by Elma Dean, melody & additional lyrics by John Gorka)
Let them in, Peter, they are very tired Give them couches where the angels sleep And light those fires Let them wake whole again, to brand new dawns Fired with the sun, not wartime’s bloody guns
May their peace be deep Remember where their broken bodies lie God knows how young they were, to have to die God knows how young they were, to have to die
Oh, give them things they like; let them make some noise Give roadhouse bands, not golden harps, to these our boys And let them love, Peter, ‘cause they’ve had no time They should have trees, and birds’ songs, and hills to climb
A taste of summer and a ripened pear And girls sweet as meadow winds with flowing hair Tell them how they are missed, and say not to fear It’s gonna be all right, with us down here
Let Them In by John Gorka
ReplyDelete(Based on a poem by Elma Dean, melody & additional lyrics by John Gorka)
Let them in, Peter, they are very tired
Give them couches where the angels sleep
And light those fires
Let them wake whole again, to brand new dawns
Fired with the sun, not wartime’s bloody guns
May their peace be deep
Remember where their broken bodies lie
God knows how young they were, to have to die
God knows how young they were, to have to die
Oh, give them things they like; let them make some noise
Give roadhouse bands, not golden harps, to these our boys
And let them love, Peter, ‘cause they’ve had no time
They should have trees, and birds’ songs, and hills to climb
A taste of summer and a ripened pear
And girls sweet as meadow winds with flowing hair
Tell them how they are missed, and say not to fear
It’s gonna be all right, with us down here
Let them in, Peter