No need to flick the **** out of this monster standing on a podium above our heads looking down in distaste at what we, the poor, can do or not do! Fodder, we are, trampled into stacks, rolled into wretched bales and stacked skyhigh on machines that run through precision.
Once done, they stand above and lord over their handiwork as we the minions, muscled in on our lives struggle to keep the factories going feeding the fat bellies and guns that will silence others across the thin divide of territorial useless wars
Once in a while the fucktories will open and spew many newborn into the guts and glory for the motherland where birth and bread are numbered and named with berets and bonhomie, pretend play at camaraderie. We perish unwept at the crack of dawn and gunfire in long lines on a battlefield where ideals are shouted and gas chambers await dissent.
Driven like oxen to the national abbatoir hair, teeth and nails collected, bones crushed for gelatine soup and flesh shredded for fertilisers to grow more cattle to be fed more hay to man the factories and fucktories to make more children to polish the forces to line up and lament our lot
Switch off the power. Switch off the power Switch off the power Switch off the power..........