Look, it’s pure devotion,
In the story on the press,
Concentration, Dedication,
With a side-effect of Stress,

I see flyers on the highways
When the traffic’s pretty thick,
And I see the advertisement
Of the pills that make you sick

It’s a diet; it’s depression,
It’s a million little hands
Reaching for the printer paper,
When they do not have their crayons.

It’s a torn and shredded rainbow,
There’s no mixture, colors pure
And that’s when you hear the people
Asking blindly, “Where’s the cure?”

It’s the sexual assault, and
It’s the murders; it’s the fuse
That ignites inside you when you
Ask, “What else is on the news?”

‘Cause The world is getting colder
While the sun is getting bright,
And the government’s oblivious
In fear of losing might.

And I ask myself two questions,
I say, “What’s gone wrong out there?
What’s the reason to have freedom
If it benefits warfare?”

And I come to one conclusion,
In my story on the press,
That just maybe if the lights go out,
I will not see the mess.