Strange fruit doth hang from trees
The smell of death stains thy breeze
Under the veil of democracy
The right to kill shall never cease
Burning wood and burning flesh
The rope strung tightly about thy neck
Shackled in this hypocrisy
The iron yoke of philosophy
The rivers of life spill from their lungs
Contorted bodies lay like dung
Those people of dust to dust they form
Are born and die in a world not their own.