the killing fields are striped with red
white lies in between
while on a placid blue they float
like islands safe from all they sowed beneath
high above that poor man's toil
they lay in sacred isolation
safely placed in rows they are
stars of self-preservation
and on good friday,
(and all that glory,)
and on good friday,
(and all that glory,)
and on good friday...
in that corner sea serene
fifty stars line up against you
flying high but they will sink
with the weight of a heavy millstone
o man is an island
o one can run from all they've done
in that deep blue they'll sink
fifty stars never to see the sun
and on good friday
those red stripes are carved into your back
and on good friday
those stars spangled your body blue and black
and on good friday
the stars and stripes were torn in two
and all that glory, all that ol glory
belongs alone
to You