You’re going to fight the doughboy – don’t be misled –
he may be a jackass, but he’s fast,
and far more vicious than the fight for the top
will be the fight for next to last.
You’re going to fight the doughboy – go for the gut –
he has a funny kind of pride,
not quite in himself, or the parents he embarrassed
who still left him flush when they died.
You look in his eyes – what do you see?
Hunger or fear? Doubt or despair?
Bald disappointment? No, none of these!
You see certainty.
Don’t assume you’re safe because you’re right,
because you know your shit.
The heel kicks up some dust, it’s only natural,
the numbers sing.
Watch the things you say when you are weary,
He knows your habits well,
And just before the fight, he’ll grab your collar,
and make his plea:
“I don’t want to suffer, like you don’t want to suffer
but one of us will have to hit the ground,
so I’ll just graze your temple and you will turn to rubber,
and I will raise my arms up and be crowned,
and everyone will cheer me as they shuffle home to bed
but as soon as they close all of their doors
I swear by my mother’s Carolina grave,
from that moment on the golden crown is yours.”
You ever feel that you’re a body, a rage of pulses, nothing more,
and even memory’s hunkered down in there somewhere?
You see the sick become their sickness and start talking to their pain,
you hear time screeching like a siren in the air.
Well it’s the same way for the doughboy, though he wouldn’t use these words,
in fact he won’t use any words at all.
I think that’s why the sadness still festers in his gut
That’s why you’ve got to nail him to the wall.
You’re going to fight the doughboy – you’re going to turn his offer down –
He’ll bloody up your nose and tear your shirt.
You’re going to turn the color of a wound that will not heal.
You’re going to ram his face into the dirt
and soon you will be weeping and doubting every blow
that you rain upon his pink and tender skin,
and you know he will be smiling when he wheezes out this verse
before you finally do him in:
“take my gold, take my fame,
take my picture, take my frame,
take my blood, take my name,
take my shadow, take my shame,
place them there on your scale
they’re too heavy for me
May you rest in your justice
You will never be free.”
DW – vocals, acoustic and baritone electric guitars, piano, pianet, guzheng, wine glasses, percussion, flute
EP – violins
KM – bassoon, vocals
JH – bass, vocals
JG – drums, percussion, marimba, vibraphone
Darren Johnston – trumpet
Andrew Strain – trombone