An Open Letter To The North American Continent

Continental, make a better man of me
You sold the words, put us in herds
But that'll never set us free
My dreams, collecting dust, break down
Like the faith I never found
And you never helped me up
But you always let me down

We're supposed to delight in your will
While you're stalking your prey
Some sort of spit-shine salvation
That'll never see the light of day

Some friends went to jail
Some finally came clean
But you slept in sandcastles
And woke up in between
And clarity came in the spring
With salvation waiting in the wings
Guesswork and 80 miles
You sought sainthood in the ceiling tiles
While the messenger was shooting up downstairs
But who cares what they said?
You contemplated being dead
But decided against it
After hard drugs and religion
An aluminum empire that you built with both hands
An upside-down cross and a line in the sand
And I still haven't written the rest of the words