| Sitting out the goosestep |
| Of the long march of the Yes-men |
| As their gold card wielding wives |
| Are consumed by bitterness |
| It takes a lifetime to conceive |
| That your days in the sun are but brief |
| So they snivel, and repeat the echoes |
| That buzz off every screen |
| No wonder that the sociopaths |
| At the top of the human thrash pile |
| Refer to us as cattle: we are branded, sold and fatted |
| We’re raised for a purpose |
| A drear existence on the work farm |
| And then a quiet death in the nursing-barn |
| «You must pay your dues», cries the humble mind |
| We’re distracted with excuses |
| Why we can’t reach for the stars |
| And so we never spring to arms |
| To claim back what’s being taken from us here |
| Every single fucking day «If you can’t beat 'em, join 'em», another one cries… |
| We’re distracted with excuses |
| Why we can’t reach for the stars |
| And so we never spring to arms |
| To reclaim what we are loosing |
| Every day |