What is freedom?

They say we live in America,

land of the free

But tell me how many people you see

growing up poor and hungry

Livin like it's a third-world country

A developing nation

That couldn't develop past the fixation

Of making money, money, money

Honey I know it's a capitalist elation

That a person can go from poor to rich

But why don't the rich ever aspire to be poor?

Maybe that could settle the score

Cuz right now all this money's an endless chore

Rich people don't live here, so rob from the poor

Hold up another late-night convenience store

One dude robs six different banks and never gets caught

Another girl is beaten to death in a parking lot.

They say it's gotta stop

But they're not telling the cops

Cause family loyalties is apparently all we got

But it really stems from cash

You want security? Here's your stash.

It's not a sickness but an infected gash

That's not yet bad enough to amputate

Like an infection, the money permeates the skin

And only bad stuff gets in

The arm says, "I'm not the leg

And I don't hurt, so I won't beg."

And the wounds begin to fester

And the rich ones in their restorated

homes on Prospect Boulevard

Don't care anymore that life is hard

They've got their million-dollar cars

And drive real fast past Sullivan Park

And scoff at newspapers telling of the city's scars

"they chose that life," they say

And far below,

in places those from Prospect never go

Americans are free to choose their fate

Between slinging drugs or paying the rent late

Going in one unemployment line and out the other

And the leg looks up at the arm and pleads,

"My brother, my brother."

This may be a freedom from which we'll never recover.