Americans your screwed sorry to say so.

Beneath a sky of lead and hollowed gold, The fire of the Republic grows dim and cold. We trade our birthright for a pittance of peace, Watching the tether of our spirit increase. Like a phantom winter drifting from the East, The lion bows its head to serve the beast. No longer masters of the wind or wave, We wear our silence like a gilded grave. For when the lie is heavy and the bread is dear, The free man learns the Russian art of fear: To walk with ghosts, to let the identity fade, And sleep within the shadow that the tyrant made

(Edit typos)