Light the lies and choke the choir, Prayers drip slow from rusted barbed‑wire Sleep, my darling, dance in chains, While sinners drink the acid rain. Screens glow like confession booths, Saints in suits rewrite the truth. Silver tongues with rusted teeth, Selling halos in the heat. Every headline, sharpened blade, Carves obedience skin‑deep made. We kneel down to a neon throne, Calling this cage our comfort zone. Can you feel their hands inside your head? Every headline births a new martyr dead We’re just strings on a funeral pyre, Hung up high over coals that scorch, Every word makes the puppets march Pull us tight, we still catch fire. If this is hope that they admire, Why does it feel like we expire? Verse 2 Billboard gods with plastic eyes, Broadcast lullabies of lies. They clip our wings with razor votes, Drown dissent in velvet throats. Laugh tracks under bombing runs, Static hymns for loaded guns. We raise flags over open graves, Call it “home” while we behave. Hear the chorus humming in your veins, Soft commands dressed up as grace. We’re just strings on a funeral pyre, Hung up high over coals that scorch, Every word makes the puppets march Pull us tight, we still catch fire. If this is hope that they admire, Why does it feel like we expire? Hush now, child, let the bright screens talk, They’ll bleed you slow in the name of “thought.” Smile for the war in your living room, Vote for the ghost in the pale boardroom. If truth is a sin in their holy show, Then damn me to hell for what I know. Cut the strings, let the bodies sway, Hear the towers crack and fray. All their gods made out of wire, Melt and scream in our quiet fire. We were strings on a funeral pyre, But the spark crawled higher, higher. Now their sermons choke in smoke, Crowns collapse and idols choke. Let the sirens sing in vain, We march out through the acid rain.
