Most nights when I am left alone;
There appears an image of my father’s home;
It is a quiet hue of blue;
And bittersweet memories stream through.
I fall down on my knees at the doorway-
I see images of the men who must have passed by;
Dirt trailing behind there feat, day and night-
Dirt trailing behind their feet, black or white.
I am a privilege, you see-
Save for these bloody memories;
How I left my father and joined another-
Those choices were bittersweet.
And when Lincoln called it over;
And my father was the reddened soldier.
I the Yankee doodle dandy;
No fun is it to lose a father;
No fun is it to remember that bitter-blue color-
No fun is it to war with another.