Soft American from Wrestling by Warbler

Loosen up, son. I’m a Californian.
There’s not enough time to waste
in a day.

I lay awake;
talk shows tickle my ears.
I pat myself on the back.
I’m not like those rednecks.

I love my own demise.
I keep a pleasant little lie.
It’s better to be left here
than standing over there.

On my own judgement,
I’ve read all the right rags.
I merely operate on data;
I only analyze the facts.

Who are you? Your rulers are children.
Who are you? Your ministers rapists.
Who are you? Your pundits comedians.
Who are you? You’re scared of your brother.
Who are you? Who am I?

Listen up, son. I am an American.
My ancestors worked so hard
to spoil you blind.

You lay back and take it easy.
Everything is under control.
My progeny will pay
for what you take today—
you deserve it.

To pay for your policy,
let us all bend the knee.
Let the new priestly class
divvy up the cash for the grifter.

Who are you? Our prophets comedians.
Who are you? Our priests are pedophiles.
Who are you? Our kings are bad actors.
Who are you? We’re scared of each other.
Who are you? Who am I?

• Folk
• electronic folk
• folk rock
• indie folk
• psychadelic folk
• Oakland