I am no king, yet here I stand,
A puppet bound by Baba’s hand.
He lifts me high, he pulls the strings,
He owns my fate, he crowns my wings.
He whispers soft, “The throne is yours,”
Yet locks my soul behind his doors.
With stolen gold, he paves my way,
My name, my face, the price he pays.
He calls me son, but brands my skin,
His mark runs deep, it burns within.
He buys my men, he bends the night,
He clears my path with blood and might.
His wealth runs thick, a poisoned stream,
A silent curse, a fractured dream.
I must win—no, he must reign,
The debt is his, the cost my chain.
Mark your votes and play your part,
Or watch him tear the world apart.
For if he falls, then flames will rise,
The streets will choke on shattered cries.
Two years his, then one for me,
One for you, but never free.
Four more come, the pact may change,
The balance shifts, the vows rearrange.
Take your crumbs, be still, be tame,
For baba must feast, his only aim.
It’s Babacracy, dark and deep,
I do not rule—I watch, I weep.
For if he turns, the storm will break,
And all I’ve built, the wind will take.
Your voices drown in hollow halls,
And I must bow when Baba calls.
It’s Babacracy—no light, no grace,
Just power’s hand upon my face.
Oh, your cries are weak, your strength too small,
So take what’s left, if left at all.
It’s Babacracy—I don't serve you,
My oath is sworn, my path untrue.
