I wish I could wash this party off my skin,
There’s no such thing as a day-after glow.
The hangover hangs on,
but now I’m ready to go.
I want to wash this party off my skin.
Because this party isn’t what they said.
It’s not about the military and honoring their dead.
It’s not about pulling up my bootstraps,
And working hard to get ahead.
Because not everybody got the same bootstraps,
The same dough handed down for making their bread.
Oh, it’s all about the dough,
They knead it and they need it
To keep their power propped up high,
To rise above the needy, hands waving at the sky.
Blame the others, they demand,
For your hunger, your pain, your withering land.
They point to a caravan.
Blame the black and the brown
And cling tight to the white.
Blame the poor and the poorer
Gather your arms when they incite.
They were never quite right.
Even before 45 took a bite.
I need to wash this party off my skin.
I need to scrape it out from under my nails,
Their dirty words and crooked phrases and empty exhales.
They traded God for 45’s grossly gilded tales.
They said they were the party of Christ,
But pussy grabbing was alright.
As long as everything was all white,
They knelt for the bully at the pulpit
And fucked the calls to unite.
So when the plague came they let it in,
Called it the flu and masks a sin,
Said his loss was a win,
Marched to the capitol and forced their way in.
I gotta get this party out from under my skin,
Out from under our country’s worn skin.