[Snaps, upright bass slaps, distant turntable howl] [Male // Spit-scat preacher // Hollow mic echo] Skittle-scat, baby, Uncle Sam’s got a Bible in one hand— —and a shopping list in the other. He baptizes bombs in Coca-Cola, calls it “freedom fizz,” then tells the kids to drink up or burn. The Saints are scratching vinyl halos, looping sermons like bootleg jazz— while the Moral Majority waltzes in syncopated fascism. Praise break? Nah, that’s a tax break. [Snare slap, trumpet spit, boot thump] Hey hey, duckie— You think that flag’s got stripes? That ain’t red, white, and blue— That’s lipstick, lye, and evangelical glue. They stitched the stars from curtains they stole off dead poets and burned the rest for ratings. [Chorus // Humming through cracked teeth // Off-rhythm snaps] "God bless the market!" they moan— like it ever prayed back. Wall Street’s speaking in tongues again, but baby, those tongues are forked. [Piano tumbles like falling stairs] Truth ain’t in tune—it jives. It skids on oil slicks of good intentions, and eats commandments like saltines in a famine of thought. [Whispers and horn coughs] You want punk? Try screaming blues on a rusted-out porch with a warrant in the mailbox and Jesus on the telly selling apocalypse in four easy payments. [Final Drop – celesta twinkle, broken record loop] So toast your rhymes in gasoline, scribble verses on state secrets, and dance like subpoenas ain’t real. Because in this rabbit hole? The Queen wears pearls and votes red. And Wonderland? It’s just D.C. with better tea. Snap. Snap. Boom.
