What must it be like
to live life
pinned against a knife
perpetually threatening strife?

To have no control
over the fate of your soul,
what then, is the goal?

Incessant submission
detached from vision
there are no provisions
no friction permitted in this prison.

No deviation,
we are a subservient nation,
now turn on the station.

They'll play charades
with the blade
and act like they aren't to blame.