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We're the sons and daughters of the poor man, the middle class man, forced down to serve by the rich man's hand.
This is the perspective of a poor dead man's song, another kid that had to run, another life struggling in the age of the gun.
Running was only temporary, I tripped up and fell.
I've learned from what they wanted:
Silent people living in hell, where we're taught there's a price for every man and a price for every piece of land.
Thrown into a life of stagnance, your mind's in jail.
You're raised for profit and you were born to fail.
Sometimes stepping out of line and walking away from all you know is the hardest thing to leave behind.
A new life defined, now we can defy the greedy men with the greenest of minds.
We never wanted to be seen as a commodity, I refuse to be an object of a vision that blinds me.
Aggression. I gotta break the mold.
Aggression. Never let them take control.
Aggression. Hands in shackles, Mind's confined to a cage.
Aggression. I won't stop until I've broken every chain.