Arm the frontlines,
Text all of your friends,
The parade is here
To preach a little bit of contrition.
All we have is a sad rock star with a loaded gun
And I can’t find the grace to care
That we are in the infancy of a revolution.
For the deepest pit of morality
I find myself in grace with the enemy.
The children painted gold,
Unable to afford a gun
but able to sharpen a stick.