Darts on a board,

Red, white, and blue.

Our aim was off,

But our intentions were true.

Does any of it matter,

When the game is a lie?

What happens to scorekeepers,

When the numbers die?

The British Empire fell,

Into a colonial hell. 

And we still play that game,

With our American darts.

But something has changed, 

In all of our hearts. 

So we get high on the sidewalks,

Of New York City.

Because being stoned,

Makes the trash look pretty. 

But deep down we know,

That our scores are not true.

And our power belongs to others,

In those American colors. 

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