Dead children should haunt your sleep. Dead children don't show in neat balance sheets, when they pay the price for wealth that does not trickle down. So down they all go and some names ring like curses. Economic miracles only smile upon an elite few and the lapdog's pups are to starve as well, a merciful reward for political support. Al hail, hall hail, all hail our would-be masters, we will feed their chldren while our own dig through debris. Go, ride us like a mare. We can't hide behind ignorance as the bombs we fund fall on your homes. No hail, no hail, no hail these Architects of Misery, that leave us here to count our dead, while they sleep well fed in their safe beds.

Lyrics submitted by Christoff

New American song meanings
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