Pop and smoke—
that's what floods the air.
As the vehicles roll past,
you duck and hide,
not knowing if you'll survive.
These soldiers—who are they?
They're yours,
and you are who they're coming for.
They prey on you,
and with three shots, there'll be another.
They even have the guts to say
they were on the defense.
So you keep your head down.
Why?
An institutionalized mind—
that's what binds.
They take their cars,
our cars—
they steal them away from us,
preying; that's just their way.
Search up their names:
murders and harassment.
Yet they're in power,
all because of some pop and smoke.
They prey outside and in your cars—
what's next?
Your homes,
where you lay in your bed.
Imagine having that cop coiling you, choking
you.
Rain on that parade
with some pop
and a little smoke.
Wake up. Sirens outside.
And while my face is painted
red, white, and blue—
Soldiers coming.