Y’all watchin’ the war show?

It’s on almost every channel.

It’s a new breed of reality TV!

A whole, different kinda animal.

CNN,
MSNBC,
ABC,
CBS and
Fox news, too!
Everybody’s up in this mix,
Tryin’ to see what the Dogs of War
Are gonna do.

Talkin' heads, tryin’ to tone down dread,
Censorin' our sensitive eyes
From sights too terrible,
To see.
Or so they say, but anyway,
I’m like, watchin’ them,
All through the day
And the night,
Listenin’ to the embedded Reporters,
The ex-Generals still tryin’ to give orders,
The Analysts, the Experts,
The Demagogues of Hell,
Raisin' the terror alert their voices curt
Tellin’ us all to beware
With perfectly-practiced and deadpan
Stares.

And, oh yeah,
Them talkin’ heads be knockin’ me dead,
Tryin’ to tell me what America’s really like,
As if I ain’t lived here for 29 of the 36 years
Of my Life.

I know this country,
Inside and out.
But they steady tryin’ to tell me,
What this country’s about,
What being an American means,
As if their re-gentrified urban citadels
And sub-urban fortresses were the full extent
Of, the American Dream.

But they don’t know the America that I know,
Smell the scent of the Urban Jungles I represent,
The small, country towns divide by railroad tracks,
Whites get on board, Blacks, get yo’ coon asses on back.
Even now, in the new millennium,
We still got to pay a premium on daily life,
We don’t get nothin’ but strife!
Credit all bad, cause jobs ain’t to be had,
Or even if they are, they don’t pay enough to put gas
In the car,
Or feed the children anything but junk.
Mickey D’s and Wendy’s,
Jack in the Box has got a lock
On our digestive tracts
Poisonin' Blacks, Yellows Browns and Whites alike,
This Cult of Death –
That’s tryin’ to squeeze the last breath of Freedom
From our windpipes,
The blue sky from our eyesight -
Has got to go!

We’ve got to let them know
That this is our country!
Our planet!
That they’ve got to leave!
Take those martial thoughts and drunken draughts
of sadomasochistic self-hate
And find a way to really and truly relate,
To the Human Condition.

And to our Mission to the Stars.

Yeah, I said it and that’s right,
I’ll say it again,
Friend.
Beyond peace,
Beyond the spiritual relief
Of a Sunday quick fix,
You done let the reverend release yo’ soul,
A temporary stay against pain, the goal.
And it felt good, didn’t it?
Surround by family and friends,
Yellin’ and screamin’ like it was the end,
Feelin’ the power of God within’,
Forecastin' the time left until the End.

But all of this is the America that the
Talkin’ Heads don’t know.
The type of truth that their
Reality don’t Show.
The Real World that our Soul-Jahs
Know about
Because we’re who they’re fightin' for
Of that there is no doubt.

Y’all check out that War Show, now.

It’s pretty good; they’ve got special effects and all.

Still pictures of soldiers standin' tall,
While the War Criminals of their Nation
Are about,
To Fall.