Rotten Fruit

from by Araless

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lyrics

They're strike breakers; life takers; liars and fakers, ready to fire on a crowd of college agers.
Arresting protesters to be held without trial for ages, standing by while their colleagues act wild and dangerous.
Evicting their neighbors 'cause they lost their wages, but won't help them get compensated properly for their labors.
Quicker to cuff a darker face for inhaling vapors, and since the prisons are private, that basically makes them slavers.
Business men donate so the fuzz repays the favors by protecting property, sending men and women to locked chambers.
Funny fact is they're in the same boat; working class looking asses wearing a different paint coat.
Forking dough for mortgage owed; cell phones; distractions; health plans for fam and food and water rations.
Good sons, fathers, mothers and daughters wear the badges but they're NOT those people on the clock; no compassion.
Job is to enforce whatever orders boss is asking, bashing in skulls, shooting holes if they get told to get to blasting.
Thugs and assassins 'cause the cash is steady enough to pass as job security.
Sing along if you're hearing me.

Ain't no bad apples, the whole tree's rotten;
From the roots to the leaves. Believe when police watching
they could give a shit less about your interest.
They could give a shit less about your interest.
Don't cooperate, your freedom's not their aim,
there's just one question that should be on your brain:
Am I free to go, or am I being detained?
Am I free to go, or am I being detained?

They could blow out your brains and get they wrists slapped,
closed casket *zip* body bag gift wrapped.
Boots laced up, chased down.
Tazed maced up, chained face down.
For a pay stub??? Really now. . .
Officers don't serve or protect, don't deserve our respect for putting on gang colors for a paycheck.
They ain't none of the 99 till they resign, otherwise they'll keep a close eye on those radical minds.
And if we organize to achieve some goals guess who'll be at the front lines to regain control. . .
But who's control? On whose say-so?
Who pays the patrol? Who stands to benefit from so many of us on parole?
At a rally hundreds of cops just standing around, but when you call the hogs not a man to be found.
So who's to blame?
The game or the player? The cops or the mayor?
The protesters or the pepper sprayer?
They're all just layers; lines of defense to keep the lowest class at bay, fighting or on the fence.
Blue uniforms occupied by instruments of oppression not interested who's guilty or innocent.

credits

from Proletariat Rock, released December 5, 2016

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Araless Seattle, Washington

Born small and bearded on planet earth.

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