Dozer – “The Nap Strikes Back”
[VERSE 1]
He used to bark from a TV stage,
“Sleepy Joe’s too old for the age!”
Mocked the man for a softer tone,
Said, “That guy should head back home.”
Crowds went wild, he wore that grin,
Like irony would never set in…
But turns out fate can read a thread —
Now he’s noddin’ off mid-Zoom instead.
[CHORUS]
Dowser — dreamin’ while the cameras roll,
Dowser — slumped like a used punch bowl,
Called Joe sleepy? Now the meme’s reversed —
’Cause Dowser’s out here snorin’ first.
Time don’t tweet, but it sure keeps track…
And the nap strikes back.
[VERSE 2]
He called Joe’s walk a “shuffle show,”
Said, “He can’t even tie a bow.”
“Low energy,” he’d always jeer,
As if Red Bull ran the year.
But watch him at the NATO mic —
Eyes like shutters, timing’s tight.
Sleep don’t care what party’s in —
It’ll grab your eyelids, thick or thin.
[CHORUS 2]
Dowser — drifting through a border brief,
Dowser — like he’s counting sheep,
Used to brag he’d never tire —
Now he’s the one who’s lost the wire.
He sold that “vital spark” in stacks…
But the nap strikes back.
[BRIDGE – spoken, with twang]
[They said, “You mocked him for naps and age…”]
[He said, “Fake news! Turn the page.”]
[Then blinked real slow, mid-reply —]
[And let out a sigh you could practically ride.]
[VERSE 3]
He once claimed strength was in the stance,
Said “Sleepy leaders miss their chance.”
But cameras zoomed — what did they find?
A man half-gone, half outta time.
Now headlines echo with his phrase,
But the joke’s been flipped in a thousand ways.
Even Joe cracked with a grin so sly:
“Guess the nickname wasn’t mine.”
[FINAL CHORUS]
Dowser — stuck in a sleepy loop,
Dowser — head-down in the briefing group,
Life don’t need a clever script —
Sometimes it just lets the eyelids slip.
No need to mock or counterattack…
’Cause the nap strikes back.
[OUTRO – spoken, quiet, as music fades]
First they laughed at Sleepy Joe…
Now Sleepy Joe’s just watchin’ the show.
[History don’t clap — it yawns…
and moves on.
All songs written by Gene Scott and legally copy-written to Alarice Multimedia, LLC.
Gene Scott wrote the lyrics and chords. Aisongwriter.ai produced the music.
Keep your eye’s open for a full album coming out for Christmas!
White Flag Shelter Floor
I’ve attended the same church for thirty-eight years. It sits just one block away from the local Salvation Army shelter.
For decades, we never partnered with them. Never volunteered. We never even knocked. Never walked the fifty yards it would’ve taken to meet the people we prayed for in theory.
Then a community organizer moved down from up north and asked a simple, convicting question:
“Why isn’t our church connected to the shelter next door?”
.
[verse 1]
but they never find nothin’—just stir the glass,
full of crime and corruption; a power-hungry ass.
they talk real fast, but they move so slow,
truth’s on the table, but the networks say “no.”
golden toilets and MAGA hats,
grift sold daily like baseball stats.
“fake news” screamed while the facts went blind,
but the merch line’s boomin’, can’t fall behind.
[hook]
no charges, no time, just a headline flash,
sign your soul for a pardon, just bring some cash.
the emperor’s naked, but they all still cheer—
“king of the swamp!” with a selfie and a beer.
[verse 2]
january came with a cosplay coup,
buffalo hats and civil war 2.
“stop the steal!” with a wink and a tweet,
while democracy tripped on its own damn feet.
“i hardly know her”—classic line,
’till the texts leak out from the group chat crime.
stormy nights with envelopes hush-hushed,
then blame the porn star—classy touch.
[bridge]
god chose him, so the Facebook said,
he’s jesus in a golf cart, raising the dead.
cult vibes strong, like a MLM,
just trade your brain for a red ballpoint pen.
[hook repeat]
no charges, no crime, just a headline flash,
truth’s on fire while they count the cash.
legacy loud like a drunk parade—
confetti of lies and a big gold blade.
[outro]
so build him a statue outta bullshit and gold,
tweet his commandments, in all caps, bold.
the legacy lives in a loop of spin—
same circus tent, just a new clown in.
Burgers Versus Drugs
He wakes up sweating, reeks of fries
Checks his feed, forgets his lies
Grease on skin, the wrappers pile
Another pill, the same denial
He coughs, he spits, he wipes his chin
The drawer of meds spills wide again
He grabs the one to calm the ghost
One bite from death, but won’t let go
Burgers with the morning bloat
Drugs to keep the fraud afloat
Ketchup mouth and bloodshot eyes
Grinning while the ticker lies
Still he grins, still he chokes
It’s burgers vs. drugs
The test says “fine,” the knees say “no”
He limps out for another show
The lights go hot, the cameras roll
He hits his mark, but he’s a hole
The tie is straight, the hands are cold
The smile’s too tight, the script is old
Wrapped in flags to mask the cracks
He spits the line, then takes it back
Burgers with the morning bloat
Drugs to keep the meat afloat
Ketchup mouth and sweat-slicked skin
Smiling as the lights burn in
Still he sells, still he croaks
It’s burgers vs. drugs
He’s not alive—he’s just on tape
A stitched-up man in hero shape
We called it brave to mask the loss
We lit the stage and fed the gloss
We watch him stall, we watch him sway
Pretend he’s still the same today
His speech is slurred, his hands delay
But we still cheer like that’s okay
The crowd leans in, the air turns hot
The man is gone, the shell is not
No reboot left, no second take
Just pills and pride and stomach quake
Burgers with the morning stench
Drugs to lift him off the bench
Slick with heat and breath gone sour
Dying by the half-hour
Still he burns, still he jokes
It’s burgers vs. drugs
Extra cheese.
No pulse
Shill-Billy
Happy Thanksgiving! We are blessed beyond belief. America. If you’ve travelled, you know. After a month in Bangladesh in ‘99, I kissed the tarmac on my return. There’s no place like our nation when it comes to opportunity.
But we still have turds in the punch bowl.
Only one turd in the punch bowl will do the trick, but we have a Cabinet full.
I read Jim Acosta’s column today that used the words Shill-Billy as a description for our VICE president and thought, sadly:
There’s a song.
He came from the hills with a story to sell
Wrote about struggle then sold out the plot
Now he’s down in the mud where the bootlickers dwell
Praising a king while the country rots
He swapped out the truth for a prime time thrill
Now he’s just a hollow suit on Capitol Hill
He tweets from the couch like a teenage fan
Wearing that smirk like a MAGA disguise
Used to talk tough bout the working man
Now he kisses the ring and repeats the lies
He plays VP but it’s all just fluff
A shill billy gig that ain’t redneck enough
He talks about faith then trashes his wife
Sells out his soul for a shot at the crown
No roots no guts just a showbiz life
With a Bible in hand and his pants pulled down
A boot lickin brat in a Vance campaign
Still chasin clout like it’s moonshine fame
Shill Billy got no spine
Just a puppet on the donor line
Dancin for a dollar crawlin for the crown
Makin them hillfolk look like clowns
You ain’t outlaw you ain’t free
You’re just Trumps banjo on Fox TV
Shill Billy got no spine
Just a puppet on the donor line
Shill Billy
Shill Billy
Happy Thanksgiving, America. I wrote “Shill Billy” because I love this country and I’m done calling the punch bowl clean when we all see what’s in it. The hills I come from raise people who work hard, tell the truth, and don’t kiss rings. They deserve better than a prop Bible, a costume outlaw, and a man who sold his own story for a camera close-up. Eat your turkey, love your people, and remember: the punch bowl’s ours, not theirs.
Gene Scott grew up on a tenant farm outside Sheffield, Illinois, in the shadow of a brickyard, a strip mine, and a nuclear dump, listening at a scarred oak kitchen table while farmers and truckers argued about weather, work, and God. Euclid trucks, coal dust, a lost hog in a mine shaft, and hard-luck relatives gave him a taste for the strange side of real life long before he read García Márquez, and he’s been trying to put that mix on the page ever since. He lives in East Tennessee with his wife, Lana, writing Appalachian-noir novels, essays, and protest songs about nurses, prisoners, teachers, and small-town survivors the brochures leave out. His books, including Jellybeaners and The Resistance Suite novellas, stay close to working people, bad bargains, and the stubborn grace that keeps turning up in broken places.
Mockingbirds Never Leave Tennessee
Mockingbirds Never Leave Tennessee
The highways burn like matchsticks in my rearview,
But I never let that engine take me far.
There’s a bird out back that sings in borrowed voices,
But his stolen songs still sound like home.
He don’t chase the wind like sparrows do,
Just guards his fence and calls it truth.
Chorus
Mockingbirds never leave Tennessee —
They got songs from everywhere, but roots too deep.
I’ve worn some names that weren’t quite mine,
Spoke in tongues just to survive.
And I crawl back when I can’t breathe,
Mockingbirds never leave Tennessee.
I’ve mimicked charm, wore silence like a weapon,
Took road signs as permission to erase.
But this red dirt knows what I’ve been hiding,
It don’t flinch when I call it by my name.
I flash like wings when trouble nears,
Just fear pretending it’s fire.
Bridge
He sings through the dark with no one listening,
Moonlight bleeding through the trees.
Not for love, not for victory —
Just a voice that refuses to leave.
Final Chorus
Mockingbirds never leave Tennessee —
They got songs from everywhere, but roots too deep.
I’ve worn some names that weren’t quite mine,
Spoke in tongues just to survive.
And I crawl back when I can’t breathe,
Mockingbirds never leave Tennessee.
Look Into Their Faces
Verse 1
He’s on a stage with his jaw set tight
Preaching fire ‘bout wrong and right
Says the children look betrayed
By the poisons in our veins
But I see veins he used to chase
Hollow eyes and a hollow faith
Still, he plays the savior’s part
With a needle past and a broken heart
And I laugh, not ‘cause it’s funny, no
But ’cause truth don’t come from a TV glow
He says, “Look into their faces” with a trembling voice
But man, I’ve looked in yours — and I don’t rejoice
Pre-Chorus
You wear conviction like a suit of steel
But it creaks and cracks with every deal
Preach clean air with a toxic tongue
You forgot where you came from
Chorus
Look into their faces
You say it like a vow
But the truth behind the curtain
Is the part you won’t allow
Look into their faces
Before you damn the crowd
The addict in the mirror
Still preaching way too loud
Hook (optional)
Ooooh, we know the truth you hide
Ooooh, you can’t outrun the light
Verse 2
They built a name on blood and brains
On service, science — not campaign games
But you rewrote the script in your own voice
Turned a family crest into background noise
Your brother said, “He doesn’t speak for us”
Your sister begged you to stop the bluff
While you pose in front of a flag and flame
They’re at home scrubbing down the Kennedy name
Verse 3
You speak of cures and modern plagues
Of poisoned minds and lab-made fakes
But you’ve become the thing you warned
A brand, not a reform
Your tone is tight, your truths rehearsed
And your gospel sold to feed the worst
Each phrase you bend, each fear you stoke
Turns science into smoke
Bridge
I watched you smile while others bled
Preaching fear while doctors pled
Families prayed you’d just back down
But louder lies still get the crown
Final Chorus
Look into their faces
You say it like a vow
But the truth behind the curtain
Is the part you won’t allow
Look into their faces
Before you damn the crowd
The prophet in the mirror
Still drowning out the truth
The smog behind your message
Turns clean air into abuse.
A War from Within
On October 1, 2025, President Trump stood before hundreds of military commanders at Quantico and declared that American cities would become the “training grounds” for future wars. Not Warsaw. Not contested borders where Russian drones violate NATO airspace. But Chicago. Portland. New York.
That same week, federal agents carried out a pre-dawn raid on a Chicago apartment building, deploying helicopters, snipers, and drones. Thirty-seven people were arrested. Four American children were zip-tied until guardians could be located. No judge had signed a warrant. No local officials had given consent. Crime statistics showed violence at a thirty-year low. The mayor and governor condemned the operation.
From this collision between constitutional precedent and present-day reality emerged “It’s a War from Within”—a protest song that asks the question few politicians or commanders dare to answer: When there’s no judge, no crisis, and no consent from local leaders—whom do you serve?
Verse 1:
Four a.m., the rotors shake the block
Red dots on the kitchen wall
Three hundred boots, one apartment
Your hometown is the training ground
Chorus:
Point the barrel at your door
Point it at the streets you know
Point the barrel at your town
Who gave the order? No one knows
Verse 2:
Crime is down these thirty years
Snipers rappel down anyway
The mayor standing at the mic:
“Nobody asked for any of this”
Chorus:
Point the barrel at your door
Point it at the streets you know
Point the barrel through the door
Cities that refused to bow
Bridge:
Grant said no to power
Ike had court orders
Downtown’s camouflage now
No judge signed the order
Verse 3:
A bicyclist laughs, they chase him down
Flash-bang exploding at the door
Four kids with their hands zip-tied
No one left to call at all
Final Chorus:
Point the barrel where they say
“Training ground,” that’s what they call it
Point the barrel at your town
Your city is the target now
Outro:
Rotors overhead
Who do you serve?
Who do you serve?
Have Nots Versus the Have Yachts
Eviction taped to the door, bills on the windshield.
Three jobs, still short on first and last.
This is what inequality sounds like—not numbers, but the kind of exhaustion that works through fevers because sick days don’t exist. They write off yachts; we pawn wedding rings. They buy senators; we buy time.
The Law Don't Live Here Any More
The Law Don’t Live Here Anymore
Sometimes a song doesn’t feel written—it just shows up, heavy and necessary. This one hit while the news played like a trailer for the end times. I watched the institutions I’d trusted since childhood crack like drought-split ground. I reached for my guitar the way others have in hard times—not to fix anything, just to call it what it is.
The Law Don’t Live Here Anymore isn’t about mourning what we’ve lost. It’s a snapshot of what we’re calling democracy these days, tracked in D minor where all the warnings land. It’s the sound of gavels that used to ring like church bells now just tapping like broken clocks, of marble halls that forgot what they were built for.
This is a song for everyone who’s watched power dress itself in robes it doesn’t deserve, for everyone who knows that truth doesn’t die—it just waits outside while the liars throw their party. Cold as winter. Coming like spring.
[Verse 1]
The courthouse steps are cracked with time,
The marble faded, stained with crime
Where justice stood with steady hands,
Now silence settles on the land.
The gavel used to echo wide,
Like thunder rolling through the pines,
But now it’s just a hollow sound,
Where power’s bought and truth ain’t found.
[Verse 2]
He fired the ones who spoke too loud,
The ones who wouldn’t kiss the crown,
Signed papers soaked in smoke and pride,
Let guilty men just walk outside.
The faithful got their pardons clean,
The rest were swept behind the screen.
We used to read the law like prayer —
Now it’s just ink in poisoned air.
[Chorus 1]
The law don’t live here anymore,
Just shadows pacing polished floors.
You can swear your oath and shut the door,
But the law don’t live here anymore.
[Verse 3]
The streets are lined with quiet eyes,
That turn away when justice dies.
And those in robes who once stood tall,
Now tremble when the tyrants call.
[Verse 4]
I ain’t no judge, I ain’t no saint,
But I know power when it ain’t.
And if we turn our faces gray,
The night will steal the light away.
So write it loud on every wall,
The truth don’t kneel, it don’t crawl.
A whisper grows when it’s ignored —
That’s how the flood breaks down the door.
[Chorus 2 – Variation]
The truth don’t walk these halls no more,
She left her scales outside the door.
They traded blindfolds in for war —
The truth don’t walk these halls no more.
[Outro – Spoken]
The law don’t live here… but she’s still out there, waiting.
I wrote this in the tradition of protest singers who came before—people who understood that sometimes the most radical act is simply naming what you see. In courtrooms across the country, in DOJ offices gutted of career prosecutors, in ethics committees that no longer meet, we’re watching the systematic dismantling of guardrails we thought were permanent.
But here’s what they don’t understand about songs like this: they multiply. One person sings it in their kitchen. Another hums it at a protest. Someone picks up a guitar at an open mic and suddenly the truth that got kicked out of the courthouse is standing on every street corner, patient as gravity, inevitable as dawn.
The law may not live in those marble halls anymore. But she lives in us—every time we refuse to look away, every time we call a lie a lie, every time we reach for whatever instrument we have and say: this is what I see. This is what I know. This is what I won’t let you make me forget.
One Step Forward, Two Steps Back
America, land of gold
Not for hands left in the cold
Empty plates, worn-out shoes
Work all day and still might lose
Built the dream, but left the cracks
One step forward, two steps back
One step forward, two steps back
Dreams derail on a rusted track
Chase the light, it fades to black
Hard to stand, the deck’s so stacked
One step forward, two steps back
Ain’t givin’ up—just facing facts
America, voice gone wrong
Still tells women they don’t belong
Preach respect, then look away
Rights get stripped more every day
Took a step, then lost the track
One step forward, two steps back
One step forward, two steps back
Dreams derail on a rusted track
Chase the light, it fades to black
Hard to stand, the deck’s so stacked
One step forward, two steps back
Ain’t givin’ up—just facing facts
America, raised by the wise
Lets ’em fall while profits rise
Pills go up, their checks run dry
No help comes, no reason why
Took their work, gave nothin’ back
One step forward, two steps back
America, born to run
Now limps home beneath the sun
Truth in chains, the liars crowned
Main Street’s ghost in every town
We stood tall, now just react
One step forward, two steps back
One step forward… two steps back…
One step forward… two steps back…
One step forward… two steps back…
Servile No More
🎤 SERVILE NO MORE
They said, “Stay quiet. Know your place.”
But silence helps the fire blaze.
They built the system, brick by lie,
Then jailed the ones who asked them why.
Chorus
Tell the truth. Take the fire.
Stand and speak. Don’t feed the liar.
No one’s safe above the choir.
We built this house —
We’ll break it down.
Servile no more.
Verse 2
Love of country isn’t blind.
Truth and courage, not just pride.
We won’t kneel for flags that hide
The ones who cheat, abuse, and lie.
Chorus
Tell the truth. Take the fire.
Raise your voice. Cut the wire.
No crown lives when truth is higher.
We sparked the flame —
We’ll pass it down.
Servile no more.
Servile no more. (crowd chant)
Bridge (Call & Response)
No rescue coming. (No rescue coming.)
No saints left. (No saints left.)
No justice given. (We take what’s kept.)
No chains hold us. (We break what’s bent.)
Drop Chorus (A cappella / Spoken Entry)
Tell the truth. Take the fire.
No one’s too high for the choir.
We built this house —
We’ll burn the crown.
Outro (Low / Whisper / Spoken)
Servile no more…
Servile no more…
Say their names. Keep the score.
Servile no more.
🎧 Listen to Servile No More
🔁 Send it to someone who stopped apologizing for being angry
📢 Which line lit the fuse for you?
Drop it in the comments.
We’re not servile anymore.
And we never should’ve had to be.
