The Breach

Well they're sitting pretty on top of the hill
Clad in their suits and ties, dressed for the kill
Well not all are wretched as whispers imply
They all play the game with a blood sacrifice
Is that the rising sun
Preaching through to wake us up
To the veil over our eyes
To our moral appetite?
There's blood in the paper every day
The flag's been unraveled in every which way
If money is paper then what are our words?
We've spent all our patience but still are not heard
Is that the rising sun
Preaching through to wake us up
To the veil over our eyes
To our moral appetite?
Oh, oh
So are we waking up?
Have we waited long enough
For our voices of the mud
In this country that we love, that we love?