When the cops come over to your house, you gotta let the others know, don’t consent to their search. Even if you got nothing to hide. Let’s hit the shadows the sun is beating me down, there’s a bottle neck ahead and I fear touching the ground. Even though our voices can move concrete, don’t fall between the cracks. A tee for a pig with a club, you’re going to get cut in half. When the cops come over to your house, what will it take for you to know your rights?
Track Name: Definition
Is your definition of life allowing growth to get behind you? Stagnation is a bullet in the spine and hate is a wolf breathing down your neck. Love is no choice, joy is a weapon and only you can decide; does positivism equal life? You’re never to young or old to admit it… Even though we get chewed on, you have to keep on moving because you can’t let the bastards win. For Chelsea.
Track Name: Dita Sari
Fibers spun by wage slaves, ink in skin revealing your own self importance. Falling victim to a trend? Objectifying yourself (and others duh) with the money you spend. Work and slave away. Change my batteries so I can play. It’s easier to spend a paycheck than to admit that capitalism imposes upon you what you eat, what you wear, where you live, how you play, what to fear, who to trust, what to think, what is safe. 400 billion spent on marketing so you can drool yourself to death. Turning all our passions into profits, my loves are not going to be next. You listen to the rattling of the stick, stuck inside a bucket meant for swill. Place that ear to the ground, the Earth has nothing for sale.
Track Name: Letters from BHU
Mailing these letters saved my life. It kept me sane as the time flew by. It ain’t easy being isolated. So I put my fears on a piece of paper, honesty flows when you can’t be interrupted. So I put my fears on a piece of paper, don’t worry about writing me back because I loved it. A BHU and the day room, smashing your face against the wall. I lost seeing joy in your eyes and I thought I could save your life. I never could accept defeat so I put my fears on a piece of paper.
Track Name: Prisoner of War Camp #334
My heroes have always killed cowboys, an ideal society built on Wasichu blood. Where everything has a purpose and every disease has an herb to cure it. Invasive Borders are counterfeit in prison of war camp #334. Reservations meant to pacify. Controlled, altered, deleted. So bury my heart at Wounded Knee, while the mountains are blown into dust and the transactions are made in secret. We’re living a legend, a well known lie; we’ll forever live in the ashes of the indigenous genocide. No retribution for the land, while those mountains are blown into dust, the plants are sterilized and you are told whom to trust.