My country ’tis of thee
Sweet land of unliberties
to Thee I sing.
Land where my grandfathers died
drunk on hooch, slaves, and pride.
They hide atop the mountainside
Far away from suffering.
This is not OUR country
Once great land of Beauty
Now My Lady, corrupted maladies
of quake, fire, drought, and rain
No blood left to fill her veins.
The devastation of thine
(stolen) precious rocks and hills
My darling Lady, cursed and ill
Her heart is sorrow filled
and so is mine.
Warrior’s ballad on bloated breeze
Brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers
All abandoned, left to die
begging mercy on their knees
“Sweet Freedom”: An awful lie
Call Thy Gods within, “awake, awake”
Pray, we’ve had all we can take
Let the Revolution’s silence break!
At last, The Final Death knell rings
Our, Father, “God” a joke of thee
Author of evil, I despise
I’ll see you on the mountainside
We shall escape thee
and Let Freedom Ring