1953, the year they split the atom of trust, They called it freedom, but it’s empire in rust. Mossadegh stood tall, said, “let the people own the land,” But they labeled him a threat ’cause he bit the master’s hand. The Dulles brothers preachin’ like Wall Street saints, While the press wrote lies in patriotic paint. They printed fear on every front page corner, Just another puppet act for the foreign order. Oil rigs drippin’ blood, deals under disguise, Britain lit the match, and Langley supplied the lies. They called it liberty, but it smelled like smoke, Every coup they wrote just another rich man’s joke. They buried the truth alive, But we still hear it scream. You can kill a man, But not the dream. From Tehran to D.C., The shadows never sleep. They took our gold and faith, And sold us make-believe. Same script, different stage, now it’s clicks instead of coups, Algorithms whisper lies while they’re tailorin’ the news. Operation Mockingbird, now it’s just the feed, You don’t need to burn a book when you own what people read. They replaced the tanks with think tanks, bombs with bias, Every headline’s a sermon from the high and pious. Quantitative easing, that’s financial morphine, Print enough paper, you can tranquilize a dream. They fund both sides, then televise the pain, Sell ads on the trauma, cash out the blame. From Mossadegh’s ghost to the modern wage slave, We’re all just pawns in a game they made. They buried the truth alive, But we still hear it scream. You can kill a man, But not the dream. From Tehran to D.C., The shadows never sleep. They took our gold and faith, And sold us make-believe. They burned the archives, but the ghosts remain, Every secret classified still bleeds through the chain. My ancestors whisper through the static and shame, “Freedom’s not a slogan, it’s the courage to name.” My father told me, “Son, they fear an honest mind,” That’s why they rewrite history one headline at a time. From the garage to the grave, I’m sharpenin’ my pen, Bleedin’ truth through the speakers till they censor me again. I’m the product of a coup and a student loan, Built my own dojo out of broken homes. I don’t rap for fame, I rap for ghosts that couldn’t rest, For every nation strangled in the name of the West. They turned prophets to profits, scholars to slaves, Put the world in debt and called it “the brave.” But the spirit of Mossadegh still breathes in my lungs, I’m the echo of the justice they hung. They buried the truth alive, But we still hear it scream. You can kill a man, But not the dream. From Tehran to D.C., The shadows never sleep. They took our gold and faith, And sold us make-believe.