The one true resolve of the flame and the bullet is a pile of flesh like an unmanned puppet;
a set of bones gone quietly still.
And in a lab under every flag right now,
some one's splitting atoms and inventing new breakfast cerals in the shape of their nation's borders
and drawing brand new maps, discreetly expanding their nation's borders

(chorus): It's root root root for the home team
shout like yoru 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 2-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,
permantly fucked up and twisted like you're always underwater refracted
but if you do go gas, there's nothing you can do when 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.

(chorus)

You put your life in the hands of the highway designers, your stride an unforseen side effect of the urban planner realized bluepreint dream.

Our font's bigger than your font. Our font- so straight, so legible, and tall and impentrable, like a fortress, like a column, a skyscraper. Our found with crush your font. We like our font just fine. One font under god under god under god

(chorus)