Absence of imagination,
the End of independent thought.
Cities reek of corruption, ******
and the greatest of sins.
They raise and **** in
by the millions
yet onlysome men
seem to win.
Glorious eyes
of curve-free posters
used as wallpaper
for the cleanest streets.
Looking up
to their Father
all good citizens
try to weep
the plain and empty tears
the Party demands
them sheep.
Maybe it will soon end,
but I'm never able to trust us men;
maybe weeks will tell,
but I still can't seem to hear a bell
Inside the people's empty homes,
Fathers, sons left alone.
Big Brother dominates,
he commands,
a billion voices
in one hand.
Behind the money lies the pain,
into fields fall the rain.
With empty pockets
walk the road
a thousand stories
left untold.
Blood can be found on every street,
death and life here meet.
Maybe it'll someday end,
but I'm never able to trust us men,
maybe years will tell;
but I still can't seem to hear a bell.
A hungry stomach calls for meat,
rotting, green, foul or sweet.
Rank food from the kitchens,
will be served,
millions of peoples
have reserved.
Between the alleys at the mass
the cross’s shadow isn't cast.
Those booklets burn easy,
use them well,
let vain ideas
fry in hell.
Maybe it's will oneday end,
but I'm never able trust us men.
maybe our grandhildren
shall one day know,
Their grandeparents wept
but did not
sow.
It's about freedom, or rather the abscence of it.
