Marlow Tha Ghost - No Clean Hands

No Clean Hands This whole nation like a riot staged behind a velvet rope Two mobs tearin’ at each other while the owners count the smoke One side preach through broken teeth with kerosene in they lungs One side drags embalmed ideas and feeds ’em to the young Every feed a carnival mirror, every headline got a blade Every slogan like a fever dream taxidermied and displayed And I’m starin’ at the screen like it’s a séance for the dead Bright lights on the marionettes so you never see the thread No clean hands No pure flame Both houses haunted Both hide the same One wears virtue One wears pride Both got bones in the basement Both got rot inside Right side got the dead still whisperin’ directions from the dash Dressin’ mildew up in gold and callin’ grave mold built to last Too many wear old hatred like a wedding band of rust Call it iron, call it honor, but it’s fear embalmed in dust Left side built a chapel out of shame, command, and smoke Where doubt gets dragged to altar rails and strangled like a joke So I’m standin’ in the median while both roads come apart One lane paved with sainted corpses, one with serpents dressed as hearts No clean hands No pure flame Both houses haunted Both hide the same One wears virtue One wears pride Both got bones in the basement Both got rot inside It’s like watchin’ tenants stab each other in a building bein’ sold Fightin’ over scraps of paint while the landlord melts the gold That’s the trick — make the hallway loud enough to hide the keys Make the people fear each other more than banks or ministries They don’t need to rule with truth when panic keeps the rhythm right Just keep the room divided and the cameras fed at night Every mouthpiece on the screen just another lacquered ghoul Sellin’ grief in powdered form and callin’ poison civic fuel Every pundit like a mortician powdered for the lens Dressin’ up a fresh infection, callin’ rot a righteous cleanse Both sides got a graveyard they don’t ever wanna name Both got blood beneath the wallpaper, both got portraits black with stain Who the fuck you preachin’ to like your house ain’t full of moans? Like your saints don’t hide receipts and bite marks in the bones? One side wraps itself in virtue, one in myth and weathered pride Both still kneel before the same cold altar built of appetite I’m tired of choose-your-poison politics Tired of rented rage Tired of every honest thought gettin’ trapped inside a cage Tired of every crooked choir claimin’ they alone see clear When all I hear is ghosts in stereo feedin’ on our fear Same coin, two faces Same rot, new paint Same ghosts in the rafters Same blood on the saints You preach from a pulpit Built over a grave And both sides still feed On the fear that they made Nah, I ain’t buyin’ it Not the left, not the right Both were built from older bones Both still grind the poor to stone