The Art Of The Liberal

This is something that only the feline appreciate
How far do we go to set out, throwdown
Everytime I die I see the yellow tint
An eye that bleeds only for silver
Raw and tender to the touch of
Time on scarves, wrapped tight
On the fist of your father
Feelings churn, it’s over, the hope
The pain of generations lost
How many times do we throw down the anchor
Everytime I appreciate your palm on my face
Lies of another man feed on us
Inside your yellow eyes you choke
Before I scream I touch your ear, it’s cold
Empirical, yet our nation falls, our body
Rise, it’s a phallic symbol
And now the yellow, and silver, is all that remains

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