The ink is wet on the same old lies,
While the cupboard’s bare and the rent is high.
A ghost in the wallet, a weight in the chest,
A nation of millions who cannot find rest.
They promised a garden, they gave us a cage,
Now the ink on the ledger is bleeding with rage.
In the beer halls of Munich, the shadows grew long,
Where the tired and hungry were sold a new song.
The “schemes” of the center had withered and died,
Leaving nothing but hollows where hope used to hide.
They whispered of traitors, they pointed at “them,”
While the lights of the Republic began to grow dim.
Fast forward the film, but the script is the same:
A different flag, but the very same game.
The screens flicker blue with a digital fear,
While the cost of a loaf makes the future unclear.
“It’s the elites!” “It’s the border!” “The system is rigged!”
While the grave for the middle class slowly is digged.
We’re on edge in the suburbs, we’re paranoid, too,
Wondering which of our neighbors is “red” or is “blue.”
The “schemes” of the city are paper and dust,
As the iron of empire begins to show rust.
We’re tired of the talkers, the suits, and the spin,
So we open the door… and we let the wolf in.
The Brownshirts didn’t start with a bang or a boot,
But a promise to protect the branch and the root.
They fed on the “tired,” they feasted on “stressed,”
Until the “failed schemes” were finally suppressed.
And the people, exhausted, just wanted to sleep,
While the teeth of the savior sank in, long and deep.