Slavery under the government in America
All funds for this proceed will go nowhere
Maybe in your conscienceness

How far, has the white man gone
To drive the stake into the ground
The soldier of stone in monuments
While chiefs of wood hold cheap cigars
Bone dry,  the barren land
The reservation,
Oh it still survives, do not close your eyes

Take my hand cross this land to some promised sand
Take my hand cross this land to some promised sand
Jonathan Toledo made his home in New Mexico
Jonathan Toledo made his home in New Mexico
Nineteenth Sunday this is the rose, let it go
Nineteenth Sunday this is the rose, let it go

Crooked cliffs, step inward
He stands with his palms outstretched
The clay drips dry beneath his feet
Like a clouded tear of deepest gray
Do not deny the scorching sun
Silent  firmament of his father's tongue

Take my hand cross this land to some promised sand
Take my hand cross this land to some promised sand
Jonathan Toledo made his home in New Mexico
Jonathan Toledo made his home in New Mexico
Nineteenth Sunday this is the rose, let it go
Nineteenth Sunday this is the rose, let it go

Let it go

Nineteenth Sunday this is the rose, let it go

(Narrative):

 The day began to end
 I walked myself gently across the park
 The elderly Indian women they were all lined up against the wall
 I'm sure their backs felt warm
 I thought to myself as I approached them
 Isn't it funny how their faces shine differently in the sun
 And I bet  the reason that they have their back up against the wall
 Is because they're afraid that we are gonna stick another knife in 'em
 And then they would really have to fall
 Their blankets were simple
 They were colored by different dyes
 I put my hands behind me, I tried to walk confidently
 And I thought, what right do I have to walk confidently across the lawn
 And there they were all their backs up against the wall
 And their backs were resting against the museum
 And in the museum it said Indian artifacts for Sale
 Ahhaha
 By the way, we don't need to keep any artifacts around
 And be quiet, we don't want the children learn about the real history,
 About the real forefathers
 Let's sell all of the valuables and get out of town
 And I thought to myself
 This is the culture of shambles,  this is the culture of our hypocrisy
 This is the culture of shame
 And the Indian woman
 She gave me a pot, it was black on black
 And her hands were shaking and her veins and her wrinkles
 They looked like rivers for the morrow
 And she said I'm from the reservation
 The let  me sell on the market on the weekends
 I make a lot of money here selling to the white man
 I turned my back I began to walk back across the lawn
 And I felt very disgraced, so my head was down
 And I came upon the monument
 It was white, it was immaculate, it was the edifice of the white man
 It said on the side of the monument
 This is in memory for all of those white soldiers
 Who lost their life "clearing the land" for us to settle upon
 And that was the picture to stand there on the monument
 And turn around and see the Indian ladies with their face in the sun
 Like peace she smiled at me unknowingly
 The only problem is the shadows that were casted upon their bodies
 By the white man bartering
 Just like they did when before they trapped them like fur off an animals back
 Skinned them alive
 Alive!  Alive!
(End narrative)
 
Nineteenth Sunday this is the rose, let it go
Nineteenth Sunday this is the rose, let it go
Nineteenth Sunday this is the rose, let it go
Nineteenth Sunday this is the rose, let it go
Nineteenth Sunday this is the rose, let it go
Nineteenth Sunday this is the rose, let it go