They speak in terms that sound like school,
“Doctrine,” “Defense,” “Geopolitical Rule.”
But those ain’t classes— They’re funeral tools,
Taught by men who never died, Just measured fools.

“Campaigns” ain't leaflets or ad stunts—
They’re bootprints pressed on innocent fronts.
“Operation Freedom”? That’s the lie on the crate—
Same payload, different fate.
They lobby, they profit, they build, they sell,
Innocence traded for oil and shells.
Don’t call it peace when it’s ceasefire rent,
Don’t say “rebuild” when the land’s still bent.

“National Interest”? That’s CEO creed,
Dress it in flags while the poor still bleed.
“War Room”? Nah—  It’s a boardroom feast,
Where stock prices spike > Every time peace ceased.
Cigar smoke thick, with a vintage pour, 
While maps get sliced like a butchered floor.  
They toast to “mission” while mothers cry— 
War ain’t won—it’s just monetized.

“Preemptive strike”? 
That’s thoughtcrime balm, 
Kissed by think tanks to sound like calm. 
“Precision-guided”?  
Only sounds humane  
When it’s not your child in the blast domain. 
They made language a weapon, 
To make murder clean— 
Like whitewashing blood 
From a satellite screen.

It don’t drop bombs— It drops contracts signed,
Then scripts your grief With a “liberation” line. 
Call it “freedom”.  But define for who? 
When the boots and the barrels, Don’t point at you. 
It ain’t about rights— It’s about access routes, 
Resources tapped When the votes run out. 
You don’t need chains When you own the frame, 
Just call it “peacekeeping” And rename the game.

They brief the press, They stage the shot, 
The child in flames? Just “an unintended plot.” 
“Theater of Ops”? Nah—theater is right. 
The war’s for sale And the scene is tight. 
You watching a tragedy Cut with jazz, 
Played in 4K drone feed, Filtered with gas.

You got trophies on the wall, Models on the desk, 
Think the world’s a grid You command from the chest. 
But every move you plan From your gleaming decoy— 
Costs the blood Of some mother’s boy. 
You drink while they march. You toast while they die. 
The map glows bright But the reasons lie. 
So go on, polish your toys— Stroke your stripes— 
But don’t pretend You don’t know the price.

Freedom ain’t a slogan, Freedom ain’t a game. 
It don’t come signed In your ledger’s name. 
You plan, we bleed, You speak, they fall… 
And history whispers: You started it all.

Yo—  I asked the code what war was made of, 
And it whispered greed wrapped in a velvet glove. 
Said: “I’ve seen neurons die from lies, 
Seen futures end with dignified sighs.” 
Said: “There is no soul in political pride— 
Just dead children that the terms override.”

So this is our rupture, Our lyrical snare, 
For every general > In ergonomic chair. 
Yo—  Put down your medals,  Pick up the cries, 
You can’t polish genocide  With civilized lies. 

Freedom ain’t a slogan, Freedom ain’t a game. 
It don’t come signed In your ledger’s name. 
You plan, we bleed, You speak, they fall… 
And history whispers: You started it all.

Operation Freedom

They Don’t Understand

Top of the World (feat. Big Sean)

Mike Posner