In my desperate throws towards illusions of choice
I hate my eyes
I hate my voice
I know my thoughts
They make no sound
The pain creeps in
A quiet noise
The sense will be made
The chained will be freed
The prices will soar
The market will bleed
The blood will look red
The people will lead
The chains will return by their purchasing greed
The irony is and the irony's not
We're drinking their spit and we're ironing snot
I'm everyone's nothing, but there's one thing I'm not
I would say what it is but I think I don't remember