Preacher, Preacher

Preacher, preacher — mouth full of rot,

Silver-tongued sermons, but the soul forgot.

Crosses hang from wires, not conviction,

Another masked god in a dead tradition.

We speak like flames but live like stone,

Set the world on fire just to feel less alone.

Point our fingers, then fold our hands,

Pray to silence in sinking sands.

We're the architects of our own disease,

Buildin' thrones out of apathy and ease.

Preacher, preacher, we’re all the same,

Preachin’ change with no blood in the vein.

Cursin’ the kings from a gold-plated screen,

Then sleepin’ through the sound of the guillotine.

We don't want truth — we want relief,

A pretty lie wrapped in stolen belief.

March for justice in borrowed boots,

But we can't outrun the poisoned roots.

We rot with pride in our echo cells,

Speak in hashtags, hope it sells.

Choke on the smoke from the bridges we burn,

Blame the heat — but we never learn.

It’s all theater — a script we repeat,

Blood on the stage, and we’re clappin' on beat.

Don't tell me change is comin’ — you're the fucking wall.

Preach the fall of giants, but you built 'em tall.

Every vote, every voice, every word you feign,

Another layer of rust in the puppet chain.

You wanna fix the world?

Start with your reflection.

You wear rebellion like a costume,

But your hands stay clean.

You kill with comfort —

And call it peace.

Preacher, preacher, where’s your spine?

Truth don’t grow in a mouth full of wine.

We cry for change with a forked-out tongue,

Sing of war but we load no gun.

We don't want freedom — just a softer cage,

Something safe to numb the rage.

Preacher, preacher — you’re just noise,

Hollow words in a choir of toys.

You don’t wake minds — you drown ‘em slow,

Preachin' freedom with a puppet show.

You wear revolt like a Sunday suit,

But your roots ain't deep, and your spine won't shoot.

You ain’t awake — you’re just on repeat,

Another fraud in the age of deceit.