Our freedom dead
(dead in its bed),
I wish it were
me instead.
Tears'll be drawn,
till the dawn in its shed...
but I wish it would
set instead.
And so we all head
to the graveyard ahead
that's only taken
in all of its time.
Preacher man said,
“It's hard and it's dread;
but to die within its prime
was the reason it's born.
A treason it's torn, that
no one
has
denied.”
Bewidowed, a Truth
in a veil in a try
to hide...
but tears fall
from the sky.
Freedom in lie.
Bury 'im high!
just in case he tries to rise.
A tatteredly flag, battered and tagged
masts in halves I wish were highs.
And we've voted him in, and sainted him too...
but we want
what no
one man
can do.
Seen the stars on our flag, and painted 'em blue
See the stars in my eyes -
a taintedly hue.
I've paid 'em my dues.
Paid 'em respect,
I guess my sin's
to ask for change.
Will some of it change?
Livin' is strange...
when our world's so
rearranged.
Six feet of dirt,
yet none of the hurt.
We just throw roses
deep inside.
Our freedom has died
but so has our pride.
“We need both...”,
I've often sighed.
And while he preacherly tried
to eulogize,
his words were spoke for naught.
As freedom again,
as freedom began,
our freedom has freedomly fought.
He preacherly eyed
our freedomly rise,
only dirt
within its plot.
Everyone's cried.
But when the tears in our eyes
seem to be all that we have got,
that's when it seems
we're at our best;
So put the sun back in the sky...
Put a patch on the flag
and a few souls in our hearts,
and raise them all up high!