On their lapels
There's a pretty little pin
They say it speaks of freedom
And justice for all men
Give me your tired
Your poor, huddled masses
This is God's land
But not for you bastards
Do you see this Bible here
Do you see that spacious sky
We fill the clouds with bullets
But we'll pray that you survive
Learn to take shelter
And learn to run fast
There's blood on the Baptist floor
But baby, that's how we make our cash
Our skin is so porcelian
Our pockets so lined
If you don't have the money
We don't have the time
You moan that you're hungry
You whisper that you're sick
Dust yourself off and crawl
To the gutter beneath the bridge
Cause on this lapel
There's this pretty little flag
But we don't honor freedom
Anymore than the chain honors the slave
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment