An American kind of violence,
kind until cruel, and all too apparent.
The kind we will excuse.
We can hold this truth:
that perception is reality
and there's nothing but finality.
Condemn the room
and stare down on the first man you see,
'he's a beast.'
Your words race
your mind skips beats,
a needle scratches... deeper.
Justify your bullshit,
your American kind of violence,
your money and your prime time shows,
your sports talk and celebrity quotes.
Throw your money at it.
Dip your hands in your pockets.
Where's the fun in it
if there's nothing to win?
What's the fun
if no one draws the short straw?
Command a room
and surround the first girl you see;
'she's a piece...'
and you're the beast!
A twisted fuck,
a perfectly common perverse mind,
with your sick thought spinning. Killer!
Justified in your bullshit;
a primitive kind of precious,
your money and silver screen image,
your psycho-sexual terrorism.
Throw your perversion at it,
your hands in her pockets.
Where's the fun in it
if we're going to stay within limits?
What's the fun
if no one feels ashamed in their skin?
This American kind of violence
wrapped up in justification
and gold-leaf appliqué etiquette.
This American kind of sickness:
an American kind of insecure
an American sense of import.
I will never kill again!
I will never give in.
I will never kill again
with an American violence.
I will never kill again!
I will never excuse this violence.
