Pagan rituals,
Superstition in vain
Throughout our history
They repeat again and again

The high priest wore white
Ritual knife held high
Over countless bodies
All blood drained dry

The altar surrounded
By the masses absorbed
Filled with bloodlust and thirst
That their desire be restored

It was said: “Your sacrifice means
The good of our people.
The gods must be appeased
By the tradition of our temple.”

But what is so different
After thousands of years?
Don’t we no longer
Murder our peers?

Our high priest wears blue
The ritual knife is the gun
Sacrifice to the insatiable gods
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Fun

The more bullets, the better.
More sacred, more holy.
Priceless are the victims
The unwanted and the lowly.

Our altar is the screen
Upon which we display
Gruesome detail upon detail
Pause, rewind, replay

Each drop of blood spilled
Carries curse and atonement
For the sins of America
Which increase without limit

Our temple is the Dream
An institution that will fight
For perpetual progress (and efficiency)
With no end in sight

We think we are modern
Advanced from our past
But what makes our society
Any better than the last?

We practice the same rituals
Only the medium has changed
More efficient at killing
That the status quo be saved