The Republic, a promise worn thin and old,
Now a dictatorship, a bitter story told.
The banner's stripes are rusted, the stars all dimmed and gray,
As freedom's light is swallowed by the endless, working day.
The people are a tapestry of shattered, quiet dreams,
Navigating the currents of a thousand broken streams.
They're told to pull themselves up, by bootstraps they can't afford,
While the chosen few are basking, served and adored.
They call this the American way, the home of the free,
In their little perfect houses, that's a lie to believe.
............................
A nation of dreams, all rusted and gone,
Living lives of quiet desperation, from dusk until the dawn.
The children are raised on stories of a climb,
To the top of a mountain conquered, somewhere back in time.
But the ladder is broken, the rungs are all removed,
And the path to a better life is rarely ever proved.
They're taught to chase the finish line, but it’s always out of view,
And the race is rigged for them, the weary and the few.
They call this the American way, the land of the brave,
A shallow freedom in the life they have to save.
............................
The victors and the losers, the haves and the have-nots,
A nation of discord, a network of broken spots.
The grand design, so clean and so pure,
Is a fiction for a people who must only endure.
They trade their hours for a paycheck, their souls for a wage,
And are told they have a choice, on a pre-written stage.
They pay for the thrills, the bills, the drugs that dull the pain,
Then get up the next morning to start all over again.
They call this the American way, a beautiful lie to see,
In the little perfect houses, that's a lie to believe.
............................
The factory hums a grinding, endless beat,
A song for the calloused hands and tired feet.
The farmer stares at the dust bowl, where his harvest used to stand,
A monument to all the hopes he planned.
The artist paints a canvas of a world that is not there,
A place of open thought, where ideas can have air.
But the public mind is spoon-fed, with a narrative so strict,
A diet of comfort and lies, a culture that's been tricked.
They call this the American way, and we are told to believe,
The promises of greatness that we are meant to receive.
............................
The screens are humming a constant, digital hum,
With faces smiling, telling us what we've become.
They show us a perfect family, a world without a stain,
And tell us this is real, in sunshine and in rain.
The pundits roar of patriotism, of honor and of pride,
While the truth is whispered in a corner, with no place left to hide.
The lies are served like breakfast, a pill we have to take,
To keep us in the comfort of a peaceful, numb mistake.
They call this the American way, a sacred, golden creed,
But it's just a garden of illusions, for a planted, bitter seed.
............................
This is not a song, but a rant from the soul,
Of a nation that’s lost and a dream made whole.
The facade of perfection, a final, hollow lie,
As the truth shatters and a people cower and cry.
The leaders preach of liberty, from a pulpit made of gold,
While the stories of the citizens are left forever untold.
They see the masses as numbers, a tool for their own power,
And build their grand illusions, hour by hour by hour.
They call this the American way, a beautiful lie,
Beneath the banner of a perfect, empty sky.
For the little perfect houses, are nothing more than a decree,
A silent promise to keep you enslaved, and never truly free.
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