Unpack your bags and protest signs

Rip up traditional past times

This is the year we won’t give in

Brush off the bribes and sycophants

Corner the lies and pull the weed tyrants

The eyelid films are forming faster than full moon rises

Whoa

This hardly the place for small talk

Whoa

This is where two cents are worth far more

Whoa

Our rattlebrains finally making sense of this rubble world

And war torn calendar markings where we

Tear out the pages tear out to start a new

Compliance compels to take our souls

Sifting through all the racist holеs they dig

And all the silencе is getting louder

Ignore to leave these fractured binds

Failing to see what history left behind

A chance to change the channel and make up your own mind, but

Whoa

This hardly a place for justice

Whoa

This is where 2 cents have gone to die

Whoa

Our rattlebrains caged in for eternity in rubble twilight

Ticks another chapter of uncertainty of when they will hear the cries

I hope they hear them this time