The tree is not refreshed,
by a tyrant falling at the gallows.
No, the ground we tred is hallowed,
And defended by the imortally blessed.
Until we celebrate our victory, wading
Waste deep in crimson streams.
Listing right, the tree now leans.
Left to decay and slowly uproot,
Gravity bends and twists her low,
Disfigured and mangled,
Into freedom's final death salute.
A tribute to the desert ghosts,
Tis vanity in death they share.
And the merchants of repression
Who peddle their fancy wares.
No tree shall ever flourish her,
Beneath the broken bodies, and billboards,
That blight the sacred sands.
A backdrop for the death of democracy,
And cryptic Christian comedy.
Where the actors act,
And the players play,
The truth is altered fact.
The audience sees but doesn't look,
Except to look the other way.
And in the glare of the Draconian light,
The neo-imperial guards, uphold the word of the right,
And little is seen from the scene of the plight,
Because the fist that won't feed is the same fist night,
With its finger on the trigger and the world in its sight.
And our father's fathers will roll tonight,
As we march to battle under unraveling stars and stripes,
To illuminate our sins in a holy fire fight.
We are blinded by the glare of the Draconian light.
We come in peace to **** you,
To **** you and your land.
We come in the guise of democracy,
But it is malice for which we stand.
Such a devotion to arms, is an ode to the Prince,
Antiquated and malignant.
Condemn us all for the harm we cause through our complacence,
Craven and ignorant.
We are far, too far, to care in the least,
Too far for screams and cries to reach.
Out of mind, out of sight,
But the blood is on our hands tonight,
Translucent as it may be in the Draconian light.
