The Golden Sickness

The bass is rumblin' low, like a promise or a threat;

he's sellin' absolution for a price you ain't paid yet.

He's a cartoon lion painted on a palace wall

and y'all are prayin' to the shadow, waitin' for the call.

He ain't a man, he's a mirror, shows you everything you want;

a gaudy, gold-plated, patriotic, hollow font.

He says the words you're thinkin' in the places you don't speak,

and you love him 'cause he's wealthy, and you love him 'cause you're weak.

He loves the uneducated, he loves the easy mark;

he's a cheap and bitter carnival to light up in the dark.

It's the Golden Sickness, it's a fever in your veins;

you love the man who hates you while you're standin' in the rain.

It's the Golden Sickness and it's rotten to the core;

you'd burn the house down just to see what he would praise you for.

He ain't a politician, he's a low-rent televangelist;

a product-placemin' prophet for the angry and the anarchist.

But the "Anarchy" he's sellin' is just a different kind of chain;

he's the foreman of the prison, he's the king of the profane.

And you, you're just a number, another face inside the crowd;

another empty "amen" that you're screamin' way too loud.

You think you're in the inner circle, think you're one of his own;

he'd sell your bones for pavement if it'd get him back the throne.

It's the Golden Sickness, it's a fever in your veins;

you love the man who hates you while you're standin' in the rain.

It's the Golden Sickness and it's rotten to the core;

you'd burn the house down just to see what he would praise you for.

You kiss the boot that breaks you, you cheer the hand that takes you;

the sickness wants a martyr and you're prayin' to the fever.

You're prayin' to the rage; you're just a rat inside his golden cage.

It's the Golden Sickness, it's a fever in your veins;

you love the man who hates you while you're standin' in the rain.

It's the Golden Sickness and it's rotten to the core;

you'd burn the house down just to see what he would praise you for.