Handcuffs and Headlines - Doom Scroll Groove 2

Alternative rock, blues, protest, Indie, political, doom, dark, banjo, country

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V5.5

Bodycam moonlight, blue and cold,
Eighteen years breathing gravel and road.
Said, “I can’t breathe,” but the cuffs still clicked,
Truth got buried where the camera flicked.

Somebody lied and the sirens bent,
Made a victim out of violence spent.
Now a mother hears that footage cry,
While the whole damn town learns how easy truth can die.

And the screen keeps rolling,
While the streetlights hum,
Somebody’s son on the pavement,
Somebody’s story undone.

Handcuffs and headlines, ashes and oil,
Flags in the fire, blood in the soil.
Power keeps talking with a mouth full of smoke,
Calling every warning unpatriotic jokes.
Gasoline thunder, ballots in flames,
Same old circus with different names.
We’re counting the bodies, they’re counting the polls,
Selling us fear like it’s good for the soul.

On the Hill they tried to pull back the reins,
But the war horse laughed and kicked through the chains.
“Meaningless,” he said, “unpatriotic too,”
When his own side blinked at what he might do.

Iran in the distance, oilmen at the door,
Saying, “Give it a few weeks and you’ll pay more.”
The pump turns red, the numbers climb,
And everybody’s broke by design.

Approval sinks lower,
Day five hundred comes,
Still he’s beating the drum,
Still he’s blaming someone.

Before the votes landed, before ink dried,
He was screaming “big cheating” from the other side.
No proof in his pocket, just matches and thread,
Sewing up doubt in the national head.

California sun on an open race,
But the shadow came early with a familiar face.
When losing looks likely, the script gets read,
Poison the well before the people get fed.

There’s a boy on the ground, there’s a war in the air,
There’s a price on the pump, there’s a lie in the chair.
There’s a camera that saw what the powerful missed,
And a country still clenching its fist.

Don’t call it freedom if nobody breathes,
Don’t call it justice if truth has to bleed.
Don’t call it patriot when fear wears a crown,
And burns every bridge on the way down.
Handcuffs and headlines, ashes and oil,
Flags in the fire, blood in the soil.

Power keeps talking with a mouth full of smoke,
Calling every warning unpatriotic jokes.
Gasoline thunder, ballots in flames,
Same old circus with different names.
We’re counting the bodies, they’re counting the polls,
Selling us fear like it’s good for the soul.

Bodycam moonlight, blue and cold,
Another young life the system sold.
The headlines fade, but the footage stays,
A ghost in the static of American days.

2840/7500

Bodycam moonlight, blue and cold, Eighteen years breathing gravel and road. Said, “I can’t breathe,” but the cuffs still clicked, Truth got buried where the camera flicked. Somebody lied and the sirens bent, Made a victim out of violence spent. Now a mother hears that footage cry, While the whole damn town learns how easy truth can die. And the screen keeps rolling, While the streetlights hum, Somebody’s son on the pavement, Somebody’s story undone. Handcuffs and headlines, ashes and oil, Flags in the fire, blood in the soil. Power keeps talking with a mouth full of smoke, Calling every warning unpatriotic jokes. Gasoline thunder, ballots in flames, Same old circus with different names. We’re counting the bodies, they’re counting the polls, Selling us fear like it’s good for the soul. On the Hill they tried to pull back the reins, But the war horse laughed and kicked through the chains. “Meaningless,” he said, “unpatriotic too,” When his own side blinked at what he might do. Iran in the distance, oilmen at the door, Saying, “Give it a few weeks and you’ll pay more.” The pump turns red, the numbers climb, And everybody’s broke by design. Approval sinks lower, Day five hundred comes, Still he’s beating the drum, Still he’s blaming someone. Handcuffs and headlines, ashes and oil, Flags in the fire, blood in the soil. Power keeps talking with a mouth full of smoke, Calling every warning unpatriotic jokes. Gasoline thunder, ballots in flames, Same old circus with different names. We’re counting the bodies, they’re counting the polls, Selling us fear like it’s good for the soul. Before the votes landed, before ink dried, He was screaming “big cheating” from the other side. No proof in his pocket, just matches and thread, Sewing up doubt in the national head. California sun on an open race, But the shadow came early with a familiar face. When losing looks likely, the script gets read, Poison the well before the people get fed. There’s a boy on the ground, there’s a war in the air, There’s a price on the pump, there’s a lie in the chair. There’s a camera that saw what the powerful missed, And a country still clenching its fist. Don’t call it freedom if nobody breathes, Don’t call it justice if truth has to bleed. Don’t call it patriot when fear wears a crown, And burns every bridge on the way down. Handcuffs and headlines, ashes and oil, Flags in the fire, blood in the soil. Power keeps talking with a mouth full of smoke, Calling every warning unpatriotic jokes. Gasoline thunder, ballots in flames, Same old circus with different names. We’re counting the bodies, they’re counting the polls, Selling us fear like it’s good for the soul. Bodycam moonlight, blue and cold, Another young life the system sold. The headlines fade, but the footage stays, A ghost in the static of American days.

0/500