You with the jaundiced eyes, drunk on your old reflection,
Propped up with desks and flags, eight chairs short of perfection.
Your lines are drawn — here, there, and everywhere:
None of your own volition.
Unrecognized, you pace in your shadow,
Stripped of all your definition.

Scour the house, flip the wig, shake the tree
Scour the house, flip the wig, shake the tree
Until your whereabouts are known to me

You’ve been abused and cheated,
Shat on, you’re beyond defeated.
Those who rise stand in your name,
Then treat you roughly once they’re seated.
Your pen in one, sword in the other,
Satisfied the blessing is given.
In God they trust, only their way, one way,
Afraid of the other -isms.

Scour the house, flip the wig, shake the tree
Scour the house, flip the wig, shake the tree
Until your whereabouts are known to me

The grass is always greener
Under western skies,
But your Norman Rockwell nation
Is being choked by weeds and vines.
Lookie here — the old grey mare,
She ain’t what she used to be, oh no.
Lookee here — the old grey mayor
He’s all he’s cracked up to be

Scour the house, flip the wig, shake the tree
Scour the house, flip the wig, shake the tree
Until your whereabouts are known to me