| This tangled web we weave spans from Pine to Ruby Ridge
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| Back to Shay’s defeat on up to Gufstafsen
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| Now cue the ass parade of dittoheads and commisars and pricks
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| Drown out the faintest hint of commie faggot heretics
|
| The nail that sticks up gets hammered down
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| The master’s finest, finest tools are found
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| Slack-jawed and placid amidst the cacophony
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| Of screaming billboards and Disney-fied history
|
| Sometimes the ties that bind are strange
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| No justice shines upon the cemetery plots marked
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| Hampton, Weaver, or Anna Mae
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| Where federal bureaus and fraternal orders
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| Have cast their shadows
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| Permanent features built into these borders
|
| But undercover of the customary gap we find between
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| History and truth, founding fathers
|
| Bask in the rockets blinding red glare
|
| The bombs bursting in air, one nation indivisble
|
| But the truth is the back country learned of ratification
|
| The people had a coffin painted black
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| And solemnly born in funeral procession
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| They buried it deep in the earth
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| An an emblem of their disillusion
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| Internment of their public liberty
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| And someday, somewhere, today’s empires
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| Tomorrow’s ashes |