Eighty Years, One Leg

A country-folk-inspired high-energy punk rock track with a driving rhythm section and raw, aggressive vocals and background-choir (oh), The song features a slower acoustic mexican/spanish intro, a fast tempo, distorted guitars, and a prominent bassline, The drums provide a solid, unyielding beat with frequent cymbal crashes and snare fills, The lead guitar plays a simple, repetitive riff during the verses and a more melodic, yet still aggressive, solo section, The male vocalist delivers the lyrics with a shouting, almost spoken-word style, emphasizing the rebellious and defiant tone, The song structure is verse-chorus-verse-chorus with an instrumental break and a guitar solo, The production is raw and unpolished, typical of early punk, with a focus on the instruments' natural aggression, The key is minor, contributing to the overall intense and slightly dark mood

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nana_(chief) 🪦☠️🪦☠️🪦☠️🪦☠️🪦 They thought I was finished, just an old man with a cane Crippled in the left leg, half-blind from the pain They left me out scouting when the soldiers found my kin Victorio lay dead in Mexico before I made it in How old is the warrior? ("Eighty years!") How bad is his leg? ("Broken, but he's here!") How many men rode with him? ("Less than twenty men!") How many came to stop him? ("More than a thousand then!") I left my wives and children safe inside the Sierra stone Took fifteen warriors with me, said this fight is mine alone A surveyor crew in Chihuahua was the first to feel my hand Then I turned my face toward Texas like a debt I'd come to demand How old is the warrior? ("EIGHTY YEARS!") How bad is his leg? ("BROKEN, BUT HE'S HERE!") How many miles did he ride? ("THREE THOUSAND MILES!") How many battles did he win? ("EVERY SINGLE FIGHT!") Carrizo Canyon, August, I let the Buffalo Soldiers come Waited in the narrow rocks 'til the trap was sprung Six hours pinned beneath my rifle, them too scared to charge ("PINNED DOWN!") A thousand men were hunting one old man they couldn't catch at large ("COULDN'T CATCH HIM!") They called me Grandmother in their language, thought the name a joke But grandmothers bury grandsons, and that debt is how I spoke I wasn't fighting for a country or a flag I'd never own I was paying back the desert for the kin that I'd been shown How old is the warrior? ("EIGHTY YEARS!") How bad is his leg? ("DOESN'T MATTER HERE!") Did they ever catch him? ("NO, NOT ONCE, NOT EVER!") What's left of his rage? ("BURNING LIKE A RIVER!")

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