CHORUS: Bing (x9) … clack. (repeat x 3.5) Are we done yet?
Dragged off to war again, fighting for who? What profit be gained by the rough-trodden poor? Around the world, battlefield to rock, Won with a stacked deck, but came back sick. Sub-divided a faded community, Turtle Isle Occupation is real, demolition is final Refugee, tent city, growin’ up homicidal. Head bowed, road block, game of survival. SInged before they learn about birds and bees Reading books of recipes, IEDs (improvised explosive device) Strap on toys, girls and boys. No reward in a moldy revenge. Stories spin out like carnival art Thirsty militias too young to be mortal. Bellignorant soldiers can’t wait to practice The latest techniques learned in the belly of the
Bing… clack. Are we done yet?
Economic hit men scour the planet Worldwide international liability limited Planting piles of well laundered arm-for-drug money Overwhelming abilities, fragile economies. Insurmountable debt, exploding interest. Poisonous networks spun to drain assets Infant formula, instant food and cigarettes Infantile infrastructure’s verging on collapse Puppetry government, brink of civil war “Kill that’s what we gave you the goddam guns for.” Aim at the charismatic, meddlesome poor. Run out of bullets, factories always making more. Three hundred-sixty-five days a year Deep behind chain link fence and razor wire The ominous sounds of mechanized gear Don’t you know what they’re doing in there?
Bing… clack. Are we done yet?
Higher than money can buy, wings can fly Smoke can rise, the price of life let’s make it higher. Peace and Justice!
Billion dollar babies born in a cloud lining procured With the proceeds of strip mining, bomb designing Lookin’ at the world through telescopic lens Maids, body guards, chauffeurs: best friends Ivy league school, international finance Government contract, tune of Pomp and Circumstance Wink-n-a-handshake. Learn to recognize a brother. Media and legislators lubricating one another. People got a masters of the universe complex Thinkin’ it’s their dirty job to hand out life-n-death Builders of the prisons, drug importers, they’re the same crew, Cops hands tied meeting quotas set by you know who. Me and you, what are we supposed to do, Walk around the capitol with a lotus flower & a sign that says Boo? Jam the machines with hate monger magazines Confetti for the last of the ticker tape gatherings.
Bing… clack. Are we done yet? Higher, etc.
28/08/2014