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STICK THE FUCKING FLAG UP YOUR GODDAMN ASS, YOU SONOFABITCH!



My father told me "Son it’s futile to resist. You can topple the ideology
but not the armies they enlist."

I questioned the intentions of the boy scouts chanting "WAR!"

"Well, that’s the sound of freedom, son", he said (free to say no more).

But wait a minute "dad", did you actually say freedom?

Well, if you’re dumb enough to vote, you’re fucking dumb enough to believe
them.

Because if this country is so goddamned free, then I can burn your fucking
flag wherever I damn well please.

I carried their anthem convinced it was mine. Rhymeless, unreasoned
conjecture kept me in line.

But then I stood back and wondered what the fuck they had done to me.

Made accomplice to all that I promised I would never be.

You carry their anthem, convinced that it’s yours. Invitation to honour.
Invitation to war.

Bette Midler now assumes sainthood. Romanticize murder for morale.

Tie a yellow ribbon ’round the old oak tree my friend and "Gee, Wally.
That’s swell!"

Fuck the troops (Insert corny but relevant/ poignant catch phrase here).

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HEAD, CHEST OR FOOT?
Propagandhi

Three choices. One bullet. One trigger. Guess who gets to pull it?

One leader. One thousand slaves. For every throne there’s one thousand
graves (give or take a grave).

You’re all the same. Just part of their machine. Perpetuate their dream.

They subsidize their nightclubs and they subsidize your malls.

They herd and brand the masses within painted prison walls.

Until your freedom of assembly becomes the missiles they create or just mass
delusion dancing to this music that you fucking hate.

But I’m not the same. I’m not a pat of your fucking machine.

I’ll jeopardize their dream.

I’d rather be imprisoned in a George-Orwellian world, than this pacified
society of happy boyz + gurlz.

I’d rather know my enemies and let you know the same.

Whose windows to smash + whose tires to slash + where to point the fucking
blame.

One future. Two choices: oppose them or let them destroy us.

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