I’ll make you well, good health I sell
The prisons are built, for the poor and benign.
Driven underfoot as they point and they shoot,
As they vilify and deify, hatred takes root.
The past has not passed;
With present danger does it lurk.
Heathens all, whose skin is browned;
Children, caged, won’t make a sound.
Hold up a mirror,
Question your stance
Cut us with taxes, then watch as we bleed;
Ignore all our cries as we scream out in need.