the one true resolve of the flame and the bullet
is a pile of flesh like an unmanned puppet;
a set of bones gone suddenly still.
and in a lab under every flag right now,
someone's splitting atoms, and inventing new breakfast cereals
in the shape of their nation's borders
and drawing brand new maps,
discreetly expanding their nation's borders.
(andrew broder):
it's root root root for the home team.
shout like your dad at the tv screen.
tie a dollar bill around a circus flea,
the fee to flee what you can't see.
(yo, i agree with glee with me).
somebody told me when the bomb hits
everybody in a two mile radius will be instantly sublimated,
but if you lay face down on the ground for some time,
avoiding the residual ripples of heat,
you might survive, permanently fucked up and twisted
like you're always underwater refracted.
oh but if you do go gas, there's nothing you can do
if the air that was once you
is mingled and mashed with the kicked up molecules
of the enemy's former body.
big-kid-tested, motherfucker approved.
you put your life in the hands of the highway designers,
your stride an unforseen side effect
of the urban planner's realized blueprint dream.
andrew broder:
our font's bigger than your font.
our font-so straight, so legible and all and impenetrable,
like a fortress, like a column, a skyscraper.
our font will crush your font,
we like our font just fine-
one font under god under god under god...
chorus