My country, 'tis of HE, screed-writing MAJESTY, ALL HAIL THE KING: land where young mothers die, land where small children cry, from every trodden tribe, let Reason scream!
Here now proud despot reigns, spreading his hate and pain, no law obeyed; foot soldiers stomp and tread, crushing opposing heads, bloodshed by haughty feds, by OUR OWN hands.
Our fathers god, you see, tyrant not meant to be, worship be free; hijacked by preacher boys, mercy lost in loud noise, no justice they employ, no humility.
My native country, free, no longer do I see, no vine, no tree; but rest we dare not take, till traitor lies in state, the day that shall take place, may soon it be.
Let music tell the tale, from mountain, hill, and vale, of freedom keen; let mortal hearts that quake, of sterner stuff partake, Wise up, eyes up, awake, Rise up and sing!
