Verse 1
its the stories that we tell ourselves to keep us safe.
like the issue aint the gun its his mental space.
mum's grabbin tissues cause they sons and they daughters late.
wishin they can grab their tissue but case is closed.
casket open,
cryin knowin kids gon snap again,
im lost writin how can one stop that from happenin?
i jot on scraps naively hopin words can manifest
i start to bullet point how bullets from bully's can fully arrest a culture, they arrest the culprit, they confess the vultures circle while he's convulsing.
placed to death and at rest cold hearts get frigid.
the page turns. we forget til we revisit.
its acidic and divisive think its riddles in the dark,
the way we thinkin hard bout this shit,
well, hark!
i believe in holograms.
a citizen is hollow so we followin, we follow Sam
a history of violence and seeds of hate.
the foundation of the nation so our DNA
it just breeds the same.
and the weeds pervade.
to consoles, movies and then we console, soothing those that lost.
but whats the cost?


Chorus
what is the cost of all this salivatin?
salvation.
nos mains sont sales et dans la salle* we see Innocence shakin.
pop. pop. pop quiz drop pencils everything you got, no takin.
what do you do when you see pistola in your faces, ahh, just run.

Verse 2
aint talkin lives here.
na, i'm talkin ideas of what it really means to live free.
we got a question.
cause if you aint safe at school unless you got a vest then,
how do we expect kids to learn and take a test then?
what are you testin? 50 yard dash and duckin aint on a lesson.
still the pop quiz came.
and grades were sacred. still 17 failed to make it.
this is the freedom that we know today.
we scream it and we go invade
the ones who need it never see it, screened it only way it played.
as propaganda when its pandered to the fear,
don't abandon your wheel.
stay clear.
cause United $tate$ spelled with 2 dollar signs
at the mouth and the ass -- this too shall pass.
death of morality when money weighs heaviest
salary tightens the rope up on us,
the new Cronus,
Sick how the idea of money invades us like a slavers,
regressed to babes under the haze of a paper.
under the rays the vapor smells sweet like summer honeysickles,
and ripples to the core where it trickles
down to the roots truth we all grounded.
beyond a nation we're all founded.

Chorus 2X

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*translation from French "our hands are dirty and in the room..."