Propagandhi Fixed Frequencies Letras:
Here in the land that Abraham was promised to
receive we listen to you catechize from your
pulpit overseas. You mourn the proofs of our
barbarity. Dry your eyes, oh Pharisee. We both
speak a settler's cant. We both read from the same
old played out scripts and hum familiar tunes,
broadcast on fixed frequencies, stuck in locking
grooves. We both profess noble intent as we
civilize human impediments. So if your hands are
clean then noblesse oblige that you wipe that
"who me?" look off your face and concede
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our designs separated by nothing more than place
and time. Different scenes, same crimes. Pray, let
him who's without sin cast the first statues of
the former rogues turned folk heroes that your
forefathers hung. Don't lecture me about plundered
soil while you loaf upon your father's spoils. We
want nothing more than what you already have: a
comforting set of exculpatory "facts"
like, say, the myth of an empty land and a
conquest so complete we can pull these tanks from
our streets and hand the loose ends over to
bureaucrats and become just like you - lounging
carefree in your cafes, absolved from sin and
human grenades. Entre nous, how did your desert
bloom?
Letras: Fixed Frequencies Propagandhi [final]