Got a government contract to overcharge -- no bid
Less and less of us living large -- no shit
A lesson plan about cutting art -- blow kiss
I love the way you say it′s for the kids -- quote this:
I love the way you make it fully legit
Cause you got a television bully pulpit
Jesus never asked a leper for a co-pay
"Yeah, but it ain′t weird enough."
Ya-ya-ya-ya, ya-ya, ya-ya, poof, fixed!
"I love cynical, senseless, selfish tricks" --
Now it sounds like America, sick!
The chart leads to the delta, echoing across the gulf
A hotel in diaspora's best slum, where Juliet runs drugs by the kilo
Give me the flame, but no plot?
America, why the long face?
So failure tagged us ′it,'
The mortal pang in Stanley Kunitz′ flaming wheel of bones.
You made us grab the largest pieces of metal and froth and clang
So what good is lyric, Orpheus?
"Get off of it!" I admit, I'm a bit unruly
Ignore UN rulings when a country′ll sue me
Here's a cheerleader secret for you pom-pom heads:
'Is that a riot?′ is just something that my mom says
(Oh, shit, Judy!) Signed yours, truly
News flash: you can′t cover your chemo?
Move fast to where they care about people
For real, though, I love all the music we make
I love the beautiful states
I love my black tube socks
I love drum line, drum corps, drum trolls, drum war
Drum rolls, drum lore, kids that want to drum more
Shadow on my wrist, battle EQ with a fist
Like "ba-goo-ba-goo-ba-goo ju-ju-ju gock!"
It doesn't matter if we kill their dreams
Our most beaten-down always go and steal the scene, so:
Hit up a Quebecois hospital
A unified form, poorly fitted
To the victor goes the gilded cow
An ex-marine denied pension
For your service, you lose.
America, no one can beat you in gun crime
No one can touch you in musical revolutions
But your kids aren′t that bright
You made our hearts' cadence wed the off- and back-beat
So that their swaying hips wouldn′t arouse suspicion farther north
You created colloquialisms that mean the opposite of their literal definition
And then made that policy an international platform:
A bartering professional, a 'charm offensive,'
And a hearse for every ode.
America, our concertmaster
You must conduct yourself from that gloriously-out-of-tune piano
Othar Turner says "heap see, but mighty few know.′
While the world makes flesh of flesh, we etch our names in gold.
We fetch our flaming bones...
We fetch our flaming bones...
We fetch our flaming bones...
Let′s bow our heads and pray that science is a put-on.
Let's pray that clarity of thought is just a passing fad.
Let's bow our heads and pray we privatize the whole thing
If you want your mail delivered now, you′re going to have to pay
..."die by brawn's surly might?")
Let′s make this shit a feudal estate