We're all stuck
In this panopticon
They promise us
Work will make us free
But they've lied about everything
So far
In the ***** ghettoes
Death was a fickle friend
My mom held me tight
And told me that everything
Would be just fine
But her last intake of breath
Was a poison
That overtook her lungs
And everything
Is not fine
And I'm starting to wonder
What freedom are they promising
It's ironic that our work should not
Make us free from these camps
But make us free from life