| No one to tell us where to run
|
| The day the people of earth got jealous of the sun
|
| Looked up in the sky, filled the air with gas
|
| Lit a match
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| So how the fuck I’m supposed to write a rhyme
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| When we’re living in the darkest times we’ll probably ever see?
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| And I don’t mean that as hyperbole
|
| You look around and it’s unnerving, it’s disturbing
|
| While the earth is burning to a third degree
|
| Deadly water on the rise because of burning seas
|
| But no emergency, just the emergence of the anti-science
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| Magnify it while the ants die frying
|
| But we can’t die trying, 'cause the rich control the wars
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| With tomcats high flying
|
| Bombs blast, crying moms ask why kids keep dying
|
| Might just take one for the team and throat slit these tyrants
|
| I mean, these the people supposed to give me guidance?
|
| Hiding billions of dollars in Caribbean islands
|
| Telling us that we should better ourselves
|
| Stand for the flag where veterans fell
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| And sit there silent, come on
|
| Fuck that, they want war, give 'em war, where the guns at?
|
| They want more, give 'em more, where the funds at?
|
| They got the power, we got the numbers
|
| Live by it, then you die by the sword
|
| Fuck that, they want war, give 'em war, where the guns at?
|
| They want more, give 'em more, where the funds at?
|
| They got the power, we got the numbers
|
| Live by it, then you die by the sword
|
| No one to tell us where to run
|
| The day the people of earth got jealous of the sun
|
| Looked up in the sky, filled the air with gas
|
| Lit a match
|
| He’s busy watching all his morning shows
|
| Twitter storming in a shortened prose
|
| Orange fingers, stubby orange toes
|
| Performing for adoring droves
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| Of baskets of deplorables
|
| To whom accordingly our story goes
|
| History’s just rewarding those
|
| For the whom the bells of victory tolls
|
| So therefore as history shows
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| Recorded and reported so
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| As alternative truth, undistorted oath
|
| Backwards the pages of history goes
|
| Send a warning to our foreign foes
|
| Those torn by war and born by deported homes
|
| They’re marching forward with their morbid poem
|
| And pledge allegiance to that orange throne
|
| Red Pill should have taken the blue
|
| Make no mistake where Chris Orrick’s home
|
| Fuck that, they want war, give 'em war, where the guns at?
|
| They want more, give 'em more, where the funds at?
|
| They got the power, we got the numbers
|
| Live by it, then you die by the sword
|
| Fuck that, they want war, give 'em war, where the guns at?
|
| They want more, give 'em more, where the funds at?
|
| They got the power, we got the numbers
|
| Live by it, then you die by the sword
|
| And there’s no one to tell us where to run
|
| The day the people of earth got jealous of the sun
|
| Looked up in the sky, filled the air with gas
|
| Lit a match
|
| Said «We are not to be outdone!»
|
| And every smile turned to char
|
| Every rapist, every killer, every child was a star
|
| No one could tell us where to run
|
| The day the people of earth got jealous of the sun |