Angels sound the trumpets, it feels like the end is near,
and which profit will you follow as the streets fill with tears.
The final grains of sand are falling, we are running out of time,
we are a self-fulfilling prophecy, with money on our minds.
I hear the madman laughing, and singing in the rain,
our days begin to feel like a runaway train.
And all the so called Elite gather under the trees.
To cremate care, and to spread a disease.
nobody asks questions, yet they still tell lies,
The Skull And Bone presidents plot our demise.
At the Bohemian Grove they dance in the night,
presidents, Congress, the left, and the right.
I am not asking that you feel like I feel,
But I promise you this, this shit is real,
So just look some of this up and you will see,
we are chained, in the land of the free.