Rubber trees. The asphalt shines with a clean gray sheen, Wipers keeping time for the great machine. I drive on a brand that I trust to hold, Ignoring the stories that were never told. The heater hums a lullaby so sweet, While the darkness stays buried beneath the concrete. It’s not my cross, it’s not my mud. I don’t see the soil… I don’t check for blood. Six cents an acre for the sovereign SOUL, A million acres swallowed in the black HOLE. Ninety-nine years on the lease of the DEAD, There is blood in the pattern of the rubber TREAD! (Yeah, the pattern repeats…) (Yeah, the pattern repeats…) They bought a kingdom to feed the wheel, Sent the Frontier Force with the American steel. Trained by the dollar to hunt their own kin, Drag ‘em from the village, let the harvest begin. Company guards in a soldier’s disguise, Bleeding the trees while the justice dies. Nineteen-thirty, the League wrote the name: “Slavery” hidden in a labor frame. Six cents an acre for the sovereign SOUL, A million acres swallowed in the black HOLE. Ninety-nine years on the lease of the DEAD, There is blood in the pattern of the rubber TREAD! (Can you hear the silence?) The shield of the law is a weapon they WRITE! Hold the hospitals hostage, cut off the LIGHT! From the rubber in the rain to the phone in your HAND, It’s the cobalt curse on the same stolen LAND! Strategic necessity! Corporate immunity! Too big to fail means too vital to bleed! We prioritize the asset over the need! The world is a ledger, cold and sharp, Playing a funeral tune on a golden harp. Indistinguishable from the chains they keep, The price of the drive is the secrets we keep. Six cents… Just six cents… [SFX: Loud tire screech -> Sudden silence]
