Sweet land of mine

Let a mother work a double, then explain she ought to save,
Take her labor, take her weekend, call her lucky to get paid.
A pension is a promise till the shareholders laugh,
And a conscience is a cost you cut from somebody's staff.
And I called it “just the system,” kept my head down, kept my pay,
Said the timing wasn't right, then let the timing slip away.
I kept a smiling little clause where my mercy ought to be:
“I'll defend your rights tomorrow. There's a game I want to see.”

Sweet land of mine,
They sell tomorrow one excuse at a time.
They'll never say the fault was theirs.
We'd die still waiting on those stairs.
Sweet land of mine,
No more “somebody else”—it's us.
The home we mourn is ours to build.

They won't. We must.

MAGA on the cap, keep the doubt outside the gate,
Every question is betrayal, every warning turns to hate.
If the numbers don't applaud you, then the numbers must be fake;
If the mirror shows the damage, it's the mirror you must break.
Your leader gets the credit; all the wreckage gets a name:
Foreigners, the press, the left—there's always someone else to blame.
If the promise leaves you empty, say it's all part of the plan;
Doubt the country, doubt your neighbor—never doubt your chosen man.

Next door there's a woman with a cardboard protest sign;
She was standing in the rain while I kept saying, “Give it time.”
She didn't choose your idol. She was calling out the lie.
Don't you hide behind “the people” like we all stood idly by.
Now a family needs a ceasefire just to sit and pass the bread;
Same old table, different planets, one roof, no common ground.
You call yourselves the country, tell the rest they're in the way;
That's a nation cut in pieces with the anthem on replay.

They won't. We must.

My mother kept a coffee tin for when the roof gave way,
Cut a little from the groceries, put a little bit away.
She believed a decent life was something work could bring;
They found a way to take a cut of every goddamn thing.

Now she's counting at the checkout, eyes fixed on the display,
Saying, “Put the flowers back. We'll get them another day.”
Don't you fucking call that freedom. Don't you dare call that her choice.
We can't call pity solidarity and never hear her voice.

They'll never own the damage; they'll rename it “growing pains,”
Hire a spokesman to explain why no one powerful's to blame.
Put a lawyer at the microphone, a flag across the stain,
Call the wreckage “necessary,” then invoice us again.
They'll never say, “We did this.” They'll rehearse another lie.
We'll grow old awaiting shame behind the same cold eyes.
They don't need to feel ashamed for us to break the deal;
I don't need a thief's confession to know the loss is real.

Some fought, some couldn't vote; I won't pretend the guilt's the same.
But a crowd is not a hiding place for those who fed the flame.
I knew enough to speak. I chose the quiet all the same.
Now I show up when it costs me, without asking what I'll gain.
We can't clap a country decent. We can't post a people free.
The next lie doesn't get my voice. That choice belongs to me.

They won't. We must.

They'll never sign the confession.
We still have to live here.

Keep the flowers.
I'll pay for these.

That doesn't buy me innocence.
It's a fucking start.

4257/7500

You sold the fucking ladder, then you blamed us for the fall, Put a price on every exit, called the cage a shopping mall. Dressed a shakedown up as merit, called the hungry “unprepared,” Then you charged them for the privilege of pretending that you cared. You sell us “self-reliance” with your hand inside the till, Buy another politician to protect your right to steal. Put a flag across the fracture, let the last band drown out the crack, Tell the people with the blisters they're the ones who hold you back. Let a mother work a double, then explain she ought to save, Take her labor, take her weekend, call her lucky to get paid. A pension is a promise till the shareholders laugh, And a conscience is a cost you cut from somebody's staff. And I called it “just the system,” kept my head down, kept my pay, Said the timing wasn't right, then let the timing slip away. I kept a smiling little clause where my mercy ought to be: “I'll defend your rights tomorrow. There's a game I want to see.” Sweet land of mine, They sell tomorrow one excuse at a time. They'll never say the fault was theirs. We'd die still waiting on those stairs. Sweet land of mine, No more “somebody else”—it's us. The home we mourn is ours to build. They won't. We must. MAGA on the cap, keep the doubt outside the gate, Every question is betrayal, every warning turns to hate. If the numbers don't applaud you, then the numbers must be fake; If the mirror shows the damage, it's the mirror you must break. Your leader gets the credit; all the wreckage gets a name: Foreigners, the press, the left—there's always someone else to blame. If the promise leaves you empty, say it's all part of the plan; Doubt the country, doubt your neighbor—never doubt your chosen man. Next door there's a woman with a cardboard protest sign; She was standing in the rain while I kept saying, “Give it time.” She didn't choose your idol. She was calling out the lie. Don't you hide behind “the people” like we all stood idly by. Now a family needs a ceasefire just to sit and pass the bread; Same old table, different planets, one roof, no common ground. You call yourselves the country, tell the rest they're in the way; That's a nation cut in pieces with the anthem on replay. Sweet land of mine, They sell tomorrow one excuse at a time. They'll never say the fault was theirs. We'd die still waiting on those stairs. Sweet land of mine, No more “somebody else”—it's us. The home we mourn is ours to build. They won't. We must. My mother kept a coffee tin for when the roof gave way, Cut a little from the groceries, put a little bit away. She believed a decent life was something work could bring; They found a way to take a cut of every goddamn thing. Now she's counting at the checkout, eyes fixed on the display, Saying, “Put the flowers back. We'll get them another day.” Don't you fucking call that freedom. Don't you dare call that her choice. We can't call pity solidarity and never hear her voice. They'll never own the damage; they'll rename it “growing pains,” Hire a spokesman to explain why no one powerful's to blame. Put a lawyer at the microphone, a flag across the stain, Call the wreckage “necessary,” then invoice us again. They'll never say, “We did this.” They'll rehearse another lie. We'll grow old awaiting shame behind the same cold eyes. They don't need to feel ashamed for us to break the deal; I don't need a thief's confession to know the loss is real. Some fought, some couldn't vote; I won't pretend the guilt's the same. But a crowd is not a hiding place for those who fed the flame. I knew enough to speak. I chose the quiet all the same. Now I show up when it costs me, without asking what I'll gain. We can't clap a country decent. We can't post a people free. The next lie doesn't get my voice. That choice belongs to me. Sweet land of mine, They sell tomorrow one excuse at a time. They'll never say the fault was theirs. We'd die still waiting on those stairs. Sweet land of mine, No more “somebody else”—it's us. The home we mourn is ours to build. They won't. We must. They'll never sign the confession. We still have to live here. Keep the flowers. I'll pay for these. That doesn't buy me innocence. It's a fucking start.

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