To have the non-televised revolution.
The First Nations want those Coutts truckers in chains,
How dare they presume what it feels like for a day
The iron thumb that is only there because
They've agreed for it to be, because they live
Their lives oblivious to invisibility.
It is racist, the fleeing blackface leaders say,
To not take their bondage like the colored ones did,
With powerless violence and the slogans of distance,
And claim we are one, undivided people
Feeding the homeless beside the Capitol,
Reciting the forgotten speeches of liberty,
Cleaning the patriot statues and war memorial streets,
Reviving pride in the old flag l'Unifolié.
The only way to deny their right to their bodies
Is to quietly take them away, in a censored massacre,
But the censorious press has allowed too much truth
To slip through their impenetrable cracks,
The people can feel each others' body heat
And so know, as if for the first time
What it feels like not to be free.
The seven degrees of slavery peel back like an onion
As the hockey puck flows down the street
At the barbecue party of being.
It takes the 100th monkey to see
They are all the same, these numbers that have
So much strength to break through
Paper barricades as red as their flag
But with only what they no longer fear inside.
