TheCryingClown

Well my Bonny's got a Southern swagger, Born and raised in the deep south, She's got a Southern swagger, And a pretty little Southern accent to match, She's got a friend named Rebel, He flies down in the South, Reminding everyone of the war we fought, 'Heritage not Hatred' is his slogan, Though some people misinterprit his presence, And think he's the resulting hatred from the war, Well my Bonny loves wearing blue, She cloaks herself in the night skies, Often flying with her Rebel, Singing in the night with her, Pretty little Southern accent, But don't call my Bonny a Southern Belle, She'll stomp you right into the Southern ea

Well where I'm from, When you see the Rebel flag, It's heritage not hatred, It's the mark of freedom, Down South, Fly it with the Bonny Blue, They go so well together, Old traditions lost, New traditions gained, But every time you see, The Rebel flag and the Bonny Blue, Remember, It's HERITAGE not HATRED.

Well you ask where my home is, And I'll reply, It's in the most beautiful part, Of Texas, Way out in the country, Between two small towns, The woods are so beautiful in the fall, Walking through them, The golden and auburn leaves crunch underfoot, The fields, They shimmer like emeralds in the spring, The grass waving hello to the sun, Winter may seem cruel here, But it's so beautiful, To see the light coat of snow on the trees, I love when it rains here, Walking in the woods on a rainy day, It's indescribable, It feels like walking in paradise, And after the rains, Kickstart the four-wheelers, Throw some mud around, Come

The angel cries, Mourning the dead, As night approaches, Cloaking the graveyards, In moonlit desolation. She walks at midnight, Between the headstones, Quietly mourning the dead, Crying for the deceased, Who have been dead, For centuries. Gracing the broken headstones, With her alabaster tears, As the night passes by, She completes her mourning, Disappearing, When the first shard of light, Reaches out to the earth, Kissing it with it's warmth.

Come, Dance with me, In the frail light, Of the full moon. As the earth sleeps, Under our feet, We dance, Not living, Nor dying, Only sleepwalking. Dancing under the frail light, Of the full moon.

Well that old story has it, The one that tells of the two, That fell over the cuckoo's nest, Back in the summer, Before I was born, They say they started squabbling, One pushed the other one over, Out of spite of losing the fight, Fell right after the first, They'll need a hearse, Or at least a padded cell, Equipped with a nurse, Spoon-feeding them the lies, ODing on the pills, Lies in a clever disguise, Well, They fell over the cuckoo's nest, Now they live in a asylum, With the demented ones, Like themselves, And sooner or later, The hearse will come calling for them, Cause when their brainworks snap, It might leave a

Remember your dad's old car? That beat up red Chevy El Camino, There's so many stories it could tell, It feels odd to say this but, That old beat up red El Camino, Means the world to me, It's probably in a junkyard somewhere by now, Crushed and beaten up, But that old beat up red El Camino, Means the world to me, Quiet and not so quiet riots it invoked, Many times in it's past, If cars could dream, I can only wonder what would fill, That old beat up red Chevy El Camino's dreams, Dreams of better days, Or maybe dreams of Native Americans, Dancing in the low-light of the fire, Dreams of warriors, Or dreams of the future? But