The one true resolve of the flame and the bullet is a 
pile of flesh like an unmanned puppet;
a set of bones gone quietly still.
And in a lab under every flag right now,
some one's splitting atoms and inventing new breakfast 
cerals in the shape of their nation's borders
and drawing brand new maps, discreetly expanding their 
nation's borders

(chorus): It's root root root for the home team
shout like your dad at the TV screen
tie a dollar bill around a circus flea
the fee to flee what you can't see
yo, I agree with glee with me

Somebody told me when the bomb hits
everybody in a 2-mile radius will be instantly 
sublimated,
but if you lay face down on the ground for some time,
survive,
permantly fucked up and twisted like you're always 
underwater refracted
but if you do go gas, there's nothing you can do when 
the air that was once you
is mingled and mashed with the kicked-up molecules of 
the enemy's former body
big-kid-tested, motherfucker approved.

(chorus)

You put your life in the hands of the highway 
designers, your stride an unforseen side effect of the 
urban planner realized bluepreint dream.

Our font's bigger than your font. Our font- so 
straight, so legible, and tall and impentrable, like a 
fortress, like a column, a skyscraper. Our found with 
crush your font. We like our font just fine. One font 
under god under god under god

(chorus)