«We dare defend our rights.»
«Blessed are the meek.»
Unless it’s four little girls in Sunday school,
Learning how to turn the other cheek;
Or the younguns lashed with brimstone tongues
(«Boys like girls, and girls like boys.»);
Or the hijos watching Papa patted down
In the blue lights and siren’s noise.
Old pappy, can you hear it?
On the soft Southern breeze?
There’s hollering in the streets:
«We dare defend our rights.»
We’re trying to work on this Holy Ghost building,
To make these children a home.
But us kids are getting restless,
And you won’t even cut the front porch light on.
You’ve got every window boarded,
You’ve got every last door barred.
If you won’t let us lay the plans on the supper table,
We’ll build the thing in your front damn yard.
Old pappy, can you hear us?
On the soft Southern breeze?
There’s hollering in the streets:
«We dare defend our rights.»
Show me what you can build up.
Show me what you can burn down.
Show me what you can build up.
Show me what you can burn down.