Stalk the ashen streets of Hell that burn across the nation,
Let impassioned preachers speak of searing pain and bleak damnation,
It’s a cold hard road that leads to the heights, but better than this choking smog,
And a bold heart knows to bleed and fight, not whimper like a cowering dog,
So arm yourselves with knowledge for the flames lick at your very door,
Let each electoral college bravely stand, or set its name as, “Whore,”
No soul can now stand idly by and claim the role of meek spectator,
No poll can seek to pacify the bloodlust of this weak dictator,
When the armed anonymous grab people from the streets,
Supplanting those that wear their names and numbers as they, “Pound the beat,”
Then my friends you must ask yourselves why they’re there at all,
If not to sooth the dictator, fearful of his empires fall,
To send the, “Jack boot,” and, “The rifle,” out upon the peaceful streets,
Shows that he would rather watch it burn than ever cede defeat,
And those that raise their guns at Mothers surely have no shame,
I wonder if they’d do the same if we could see their face or name,
So stand together, Brothers, Sisters, call out this hypocrisy,
Or give up truth and justice and all hope of democracy.

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