America. America.

Is an harmony with a sweet melody

where the streets are made out of GOLD

That’s what they told me..

uhhh?

I’m confused, by this illusion that was fused into my brain

 

She is a beautiful sad playing violin

With a sound frequency that pierces through my soul

Deep down, deep down till there’s no more left of that hole

Tears crawling down my face

Hurting, crying, yeah!! Awaking now?

Migration is a situation

With tribulation

It’s like an offbeat transformation

 

How can you tell me that we are not Americans?

If we make up what is so called “Americans”.

Same visualization, same interpretation. And same motivation

Now, tell me! How come we not Americans?

Working long shift for a low income

Cleaning your toilets, working in your manipulation factories

Where high prestige people will never set foot in

 

Saying that we are not Americans

Cause we wasn’t born in the same soil

Maybe you are blind

At least be kind

And take a reality check

 

Saying immigrants is the problem to the economy

And they should be deported back to their country

Maybe you should refresh your memory

Your rapping is not making any sense

Don’t you remember that you are descendants

Of immigrants

 

America. America.

Is an harmony with sweet melody?