Testo Refugees. Kevin Devine

Refugees.

40 million refugees with no place on this earth to call their home.
one for every aimless graduate with nothing else to show for it but loans.
and those of us who make a mark use someone else's blood.
our western stain won't wash away.
it won't vanish in the flood.
it's as deeper through each hurricane and tidal wave and war.
oh woah.
we want everything we see and once it's gone, we just want more.

atlas had those shoulders.
we've got ambien and jamisons and blow to bind us in a bubble and keep the newsprint nightmare distant and remote.
but when we wake in guillotines and pitch our screaming fits, when the governor strikes up the band and gags our parted lips, when the worst case shows are dressed and dazzling ready for the ball, oh woah.
boy, that bubble's bound to burst and what a tragic way to fall.

the tabloids tell us hate.
the _ strikes those subways closed and puts you out.
forget those 50 hour tunnel weeks inhaling steel dust poison through his mouth.
well, if he don't deserve a pension that makes his family feel secure, if we're now so disconnected, it's our reflections we ignore.
and if our constant choice is _ and _ the writing on the wall, oh woah.
then i'm sad to say we're lost and i'm embarrassed for us all.

so most days i can't put to rest the burning cities smoking in my mind.
and i play pretend the principals are nothing more than actors running lines.
and i stumble through a movie set where tortured victims laugh at embedded journalists who juggle knives and dagger glass while they entertain a mob of heads, the state and CEOs.
oh woah.
i stagger past an _ through saloon doors painted gold.

so i turn and i see uncle sam outside of wardrobe ready for the shoot.
so i walk right up and talk to him.
i tell him that i'm scared and i'm confused.
while they test the cameras out and get the lighting right, while catering fills coffee cups and carves up apple pie, and while the stylists trim his beard and straighten those lapels, oh woah.
i ask his empire _ and drive us straight to hell.
and as my daydream ends, he stands ashamed- a shocked and shattered shell.
but there's never any answer for my starving tongue to tell.
'cause the director's shouting "action," but from offset it's just as well.