Of Thee I Sing (Jimi Solo)

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Temptation at its coronation, swaggered in ~ Behind our politicians up to their necks in sin ~ Of them seeking party platforms and those within ~ the consequences of living their lifestyle ~ Liberty, disillusioned, packs her things to leave ~ Hiding Lazarus’ poem in her tattered sleeve ~ Crying as she recalls a time she did believe ~ But the truth she must confront, its been a while ~ Behold, the rise and fall of her empire’s reign ~ Bill of rights stained with the blood of those tortured and slain ~ Broke loose from the bond of ethics, with the black heart of Cain ~ has sent our allies running for the turnstiles ~ My country, tis of thee ~ Sweet land of capitalism disguised as democracy ~ asleep in the gatehouse, slumbering in complacency ~ Of thee I sing ~ The feds had ya’ believe they’d their backs to the wall ~ told us WMDs were in the very next stall ~ There’s a hole in the alibi and I peer through its wall ~ ‘Was just Oppenheimer’s ghost choking from a stroke of genius ~ Up on Capitol Hill good ol’ boys plant a cross ~ “Who we gonna nail it to?” lets go ask the boss ~ So they stop by Pull ya Punches Pilot , he told ’em to get lost ~ I don’t need no more murders on my conscience ~ Multi-nationals climb in bed with the silver spoon son ~ While TV keeps us doped up on a presidential run ~ And another school is shot up with a forefather’s gun ~ Cut to the weather; The edits are seamless. ~ My country, tis of thee ~ Sweet land of smoke and mirrors fool us that we’ re free ~ Rounding up all the dissidents, then throwing away the key ~ Of thee I sing ~ Ghost grey, vain, the aged puppeteers ~ Cast shadows of doubt into the chasm of truth once revered ~ And all of those that gather not to listen, but to hear ~ These masters of party line illusions ~ The blind war mongers flail at foreign ghosts ~ With heirloom swords, a swift wrath they boast ~ raising glasses of their own Kool-aid in a toast ~ while bending to their needs, the Constitution ~ Calling for our borders to be secured ~ while immigrants press shirts, pick crops and clean their mansion floors ~ When justice serves their purpose, the country will be restored; ~ middle America’s foregone conclusion ~ My country tis of thee ~ Sweet land where present-day pilgrims are denied democracy ~ This land ain’t your land; forced off involuntarily ~ Of thee I sing ~ Land where our fathers died ~ The natives and the enslaved they slaughtered right alongside ~ Emerging from shallow graves, the ghosts of genocide ~ Let what is left of freedom ring ~ Searching for scapegoats that allow them to withdraw ~ From looking-glass defeat, that magnifies their flaws ~ In their attempt to find sanctuary in house-of-card laws ~ that can only fold, collapsing into chaos ~ Who steals away ideals once held in esteem ~ Shaking the mighty giant from walking dreams ~ Only to drown her in Narcissus’ streams ~ of tears mourning her own loss ~ That flood the foundations to which they were loosely tied ~ Their sandcastle faith cannot escape the rising tide ~ For conscience having left them years ago on the midnight ride ~ Over an ocean of truth they can no longer cross ~ My country tis of thee ~ Sweet land sown in hypocrisy ~ Feeding on the forbidden fruit fallen from the tree ~ Of thee I sing ~ The great experiment giving way to the great divide ~ We are left to navigate the wasteland of the perpetual lie ~ For every government sanctioned police state homicide ~ Let what is left of freedom ring