By The People

Strike up the band brother hand me another bowl of your soul.
Brother has a long way to go maybe baby should know his cotton mouth is too slow for the song of the forgotten South,
Just don't hang us up here.
Step by step by please though proletarian am I.
By chance am you
"wine git out de way o'de darkies."
You'd better hustle up a storm to sing this Caucasian lullaby.
Sleep oh my darling now sleep.
Draw freehand over Iron Curtain.
Stalk up on the trim bamboo.
To footridge the bullrushes certain to know law,
American express.
No Caucasian flair for flim-flam will do.
Step by please step by.
Weigh the small advance.
There is still a chance.
Let's assume that we form a company men.
No mention should the pass in revue of the show.
Just understand that I prefer to be dead than red white or blue as I write sturdy crew.
As you view these few Russians whose true dawn came to view long ago.
So I think that you'd better strike up the band brother hand me another bowl of your soul.
The song of the forgotten South just don't hang us up here.
Here the unknown is at hand and not far from my heel a tarbaby feel for the Czar.
For those who are lonely well the Black sea is callin' Georgia's Stalin has fallen so you all come here.
We now are near to the end.
If you stay with the show say we all had to go to hasten to jar the few nations too far gone to step by.