Letras

[Intro]
[slow, crushing riff]
The war starts on a screen.

[Verse]
They never smell the smoke they sell,
Never hear the wounded pray.
They point at maps like gods at play,
Then cut to commercials anyway.
A studio halo, a polished grin,
A medal pinned to a talking head.
They call it “sacrifice” on Monday,
Then dine with the ones you bled.

[Chorus]
[doom, anthemic]
Broadcast generals—
Voices deep, hands clean.
They order storms from velvet chairs
And crown themselves on screens.
Broadcast generals—
They don’t fight, they narrate.
And every “victory” they promise
Is another funeral date.

[Break]
[stop, low]
“Collateral.”
“Necessary.”
“Patriotic.”

[Verse 2]
They trade in fear like currency,
They make a market of the dead.
They label doubt as disloyalty,
Then sell you silence instead.
A ticker tape of “breaking news,”
A looping chorus of controlled regret—
If truth doesn’t fit the segment,
They cut it, and you forget.

[Bridge]
[drop, voice close]
Low voices. High ratings.
Real bodies. Fake savings.
They want you loud and loyal—
Not informed, not brave.

[Final Chorus]
[heavier]
Broadcast generals—
Voices deep, hands clean.
They order storms from velvet chairs
And crown themselves on screens.
Broadcast generals—
When the cameras dim and fade,
It’s your streets that hold the ruins
Of the wars they made.

[Outro]
[riff sustains, feedback]
Mute the screen.
Hear the scream.

[end song]