The Empire Has No Clothes
They drape the flag in holy light,
And speak of freedom, wrong and right,
But steel and oil beneath the hymn
Reveal the truth: it’s always grim.
They wage their wars with others’ hands,
On blood-soaked soil in foreign lands.
A proxy here, a coup disguised,
A drone strike where a child dies.
They cry “Terror!” with practiced tone,
While funding terror of their own.
The beast they claim to chase abroad
Was suckled once on their own fraud.
The generals dine, the lobbyists cheer,
The war machine is shifting gear.
Raytheon grins, the Congress nods,
And soldiers march for corporate gods.
The state is captured, sold and bought,
By men who never fire a shot.
The oligarchs, in tailored grace,
Have turned the land into their base.
They own the air, the sea, the land,
And slip our wages from our hand.
They raise the debt, then sell the cure,
While working people just endure.
They call it tax, but it’s a noose,
Tightened with patriotic use.
No Boston Tea, no rebel flame—
Just quiet lives ground down by shame.
Our founding ghosts, if they could see,
This gilded farce of liberty,
Would wonder why their cries of old
Were drowned in markets bought and sold.
The Emperor strides, with saber drawn,
Naked ‘neath the rising dawn.
But no one dares to speak, or stare,
Lest truth strip power fully bare.
Yet still the whispers grow each day,
As cracks form in the grand display.
And when enough have seen the lie,
The paper eagle may not fly.
Not with bombs, or flags unfurled,
But by reclaiming their own world.
For freedom’s not a branded name—
It’s breaking out of empire’s game.
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