Should I lay my head, soaking in a tub covered in white paint
It is how you think I live, pretending to be a saint
I do not ask, but it is my children who must overcome my teachings
But what should I tell them of another man's preachings?

It is the unjust law that should be buried by glorious upheaval
For no law of despots and thieves knows equity, only evil
But thought repressed by those who will not allow others to speak
Is a law of mad men who would not give what it is they seek

In the judgment of those with too much power or nothing to lose
We are either ruled or blamed, but it is they who choose
I would die on the island of my father no matter the depth of peril
For the blood in my veins is not of the anger in your barrel