The Flock

Count all your blessings

Don’t number the losses

Ignore the green meadows

With rows of white crosses

Revere all your leaders

And all you are told

Accept what they tell you

And give them your gold

We are the great nation

We’re living the dream

Things really can’t be

Quite as bad as they seem

Pay no attention

To who has the controls

Counting the bodies

And selling their souls

Drunk on the power

We readily gave

Blind to the madness

We dig our own grave

Follow like sheep

Every son, every daughter

Sweet, smiling lambs

Heading to our own slaughter