Pretty painful version of "Good Old Rebel." I've always liked the words. The Good Old Rebel is one pissed off MF*** er. This song sticks out, almost like "Strange Fruit," for being a naked shred of truth in what usually is an industry of sweet nothin
I've always considered myself folk, but I play an electric guitar, so you figure it out. I'm just a guy with some cheesy equipment. Sheet music really helps me
I'm just an old man recording in a basement. The band is an AdrenaLinn effects and drum machine, some amps and some guitars
Story behind the song
The song is the story.
Lyrics
Oh, I'm a good old Rebel,
Now, that's just what I am,
For this "fair land of freedom"
I do not care a damn.
I'm glad I fit against it --
I only wish we'd won;
And I don't want no pardon
For anything I've done.
I hates the Constitution,
This great Republic, too;
I hates the Freedmen's Bureau,
In uniforms of blue.
I hates the nasty eagle,
With all his brag and fuss;
But the lyin', thievin' Yankees,
I hates 'em wuss and wuss.
I hates the Yankee nation,
And everything they do;
I hates the Declaration
Of Independence, too;
I hates the glorious Union,
'Tis dripping with our blood;
And I hates the striped banner --
I fit it all I could.
I followed old Mars' Robert
For four year, near about,
Got wounded in three places,
And starved at Pint Lookout.
I cotch the roomatism
A-campin' in the snow,
But I killed a chance of Yankees --
And I'd like to kill some mo'.
Three hundred thousand Yankees
Is stiff in Southern dust;
We got three hundred thousand
Befo' they conquered us.
They died of Southern fever
And Southern steel and shot;
And I wish it was three millions
Instead of what we got.
I can't take up my musket
And fight 'em now no mo'.
But I ain't a-goin' to love 'em,
Now this is sartin sho';
And I don't want no pardon
For what I was and am,
And I won't be reconstructed,
And I don't care a damn.
See what I mean; seriously pissed.
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