I feel like a bloated child on grimy tiles
Eating the pig slop of news about another one
Then another one taken for no other reason
Than existing at the wrong time and place
When place, this place, was supposed to be
A golden land of promises of more, Mĕiguó
Where even the filth was beautiful, if only
Their kids could have just a little bit more
We’re Americans; we’re us
United States of America: United States of Us
Was that a lie, proven by blood on concrete
And bits of broken skull?
What is with our faces that we have to fall?
When it’s already hard to breathe, to convince ourselves
That hurt anywhere is a threat to you no matter where
And that love anywhere is a fight against hurt everywhere
