The stories the same as it plays out again
In a country where shame’s just a means to an end
Of a promise held out to all who believe
Who then drown in the blood of all those who bleed
 
Like an old LP skipping on an old record player
Like a joke told ‘bout some one whose standing right there
Like a bad memory you never quite shake
Like a dream that remains and you never quite wake
 
But you’re free
So free
That it crushes and smothers the promises made to me
And the eyes of the blinded still can’t see
 
One day the hero, our own perfect tale
Next day an Indian drunk in a jail
One day a photo for the whole world to see
The next day forgotten a non-history
 
It’s a hell of a story if anyone cared
To sift through the guilt that everyone shares
And arriving some day with a view past the stain
Of the blood, the sorrow, the lies, and the pain
 
But you’re free
So free
That it crushes and smothers the promises made to me
And the eyes of the blinded still can’t see
 
So here’s to the homo’s, the freaks and the fools
Here’s to the children who break all the rules
Here’s to the people who march and resist
And here’s to the people that progress has missed
 
Here’s to your tired, your weary, your poor
Here’s to your sons who died in your wars
Here’s to the thought that some day we’ll see
And here’s to Ira Hayes, wherever he may be
 
 
                                    Jonathan Leavitt
                                    November 2009