Skin in the Game

“Skin in the Game” is a dark Southern rock anthem that exposes the modern illusion of freedom — a protest for the working class trapped in a system of endless taxes, poor wages, and false ownership. Gritty guitars, heavy bass, and smoky Americana vocals paint a haunting picture of a nation where hard work no longer buys peace, only debt. Every chord carries the weight of frustration, pride, and rebellion against a government that owns what you earn. It’s the sound of the overworked, overtaxed American spirit — bruised, unbroken, and fighting back through the music.

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Lyrics:
[Verse 1]
Work my hands down to the bone, still the ledger’s never clean,
They take a slice of every dream, like wolves dressed up in green.
Property man says pay your due, or we’ll come and take your land,
You thought you owned that little piece? You just leased it from Uncle Sam.

[Pre-Chorus]
They got their claws in every dime,
Freedom’s now a rented line—

[Chorus]
Ain’t got no skin in the game, they already peeled it away,
Pay the tax, tow the line, watch your lifeblood drain each day.
Don’t pay the note, they’ll come for your home,
Don’t plate the truck, you can’t even roam—
They sold us the dream, then changed the name,
Now freedom’s just an illusion of the flame.

[Verse 2]
Wages low, prices high, can’t keep up with the grind,
We’re chasing shadows, dollar signs, and debt we’ll never unwind.
Got a tag on every tool I own, a fee for breathing air,
They preach about equality, but fairness ain’t nowhere.

[Pre-Chorus]
Can’t buy peace, can’t buy time,
You’re free in word, not in mind—

[Chorus]
Ain’t got no skin in the game, they already peeled it away,
Pay the tax, tow the line, watch your soul decay.
Don’t pay the toll, they’ll shut your gate,
Don’t pay the bill, you’ll lose your fate—
They sold us hope, then played their game,
Freedom’s just a brand without a name.

[Bridge]
They say this land was made for me and you,
But the deed’s got their signature too.
You’re just a tenant in a nation of rent,
Working off interest, heaven-sent.

[Breakdown]
Ain’t it funny how the harder you fight,
The less you get to call yours tonight?
Your labor’s the product, your dream’s the trade,
The house of the free’s already paid.

[Final Chorus]
Ain’t got no skin in the game, it’s all carved up and claimed,
Pay the tax, feed the flame, and they’ll still call you to blame.
We work, we sweat, we fade away—
For a promise that slipped away—
Now freedom’s just a whisper in the rain,
And the poor man’s got no skin in the game.

[Outro]
Yeah… freedom’s just a whisper in the rain.
No skin, no claim… just ghosts in the game.