Behind these cardboard trenches where you buy your conscience clean From fugitives and thieves But what's the difference in the end? The guilt is all the same
These streets have wept a thousand times And it's painted crimson on cement But the revolution never came One last stand from the mild, mild West
Behind these picket fences are the ghettos of the elite The corporate emperors and slaves who made the world such a beautiful place With their happy meals and hand grenades
These streets have wept a thousand lies And it's painted crimson on cement But the revolution never came One last stand from the mild, mild West
Your fear is control We await apocalypse while they nail your enemy to a golden arch Burn your flags in your shopping malls Because freedom is a franchise these days And I think we've lost the fight
