The unrelenting voice of the little man inside Is giving you no choice but to turn against the tide It’s a force to be reckoned with; the power to decide The nerve to cut your own path, to follow or decline The sickness of the people This burden of every man Hell bent on becoming what ever you can Forced into submission but programmed to disobey A hopeless coalition but not one that’s here to stay Free men, free thoughts, free words and free ideals No man, no one can take that choice away It is a victory Your moral injuries