None of us asked to
Be treated so damn well,
All of us survive in
Bohemian Hell.
The poets write
Of sadness and depression,
The artist's paintings
Of regret and opression.
The songs we sing
Are to keep us sane,
The dances we dance
To keep us warm in the rain.
The fires we burn
To rid ourselves of the pasr,
And yet these memories
Seem to last.
It is rare that you will see
Some hope in our eyes,
The terror and grief
Fuel our cries.
People still feel sorry for us,
But there's nothing they can do,
What can they provide for us
Besides money, clothes, and food?
The simple truth is that the way we live
Is the way we were destined to be,
And living life the way we Bohemians do
Is the only way you'll be able to see.
