The powers that be

Wouldn’t it be nice if you could give someone your name?

Without them going: just tell me your number, tis all the same.

Perhaps it’s a reach to have it forcefully tattooed on my forearm

While they all seem oblivious to all the harm

They do to those they’re supposed to nourish

And when challenged, they shout boorish:

‘Wir haben es nicht gewusst.’

 

Perhaps it’s seen as crass to compare their corrupt company

To the group of people responsible for the worst crime in history

Maybe a better comparison within this quip

Us, rowing to a drum, aboard their giant ship

Although many within her teach enlightenment and tolerance

Their words fall on deaf-ears among the apathetic audience.

Complicity envelops all those drawn in.

 

All the young ones staring at their phones are too busy to notice

They’re ransoming their futures for three island years eating lotus

Thrown back into the world with just a piece of paper and a lot of debt

Working it off to gain crucial experience through blood and sweat.

Finally grasping the futility and abuse of their chosen path,

Hopefully leveling the thing I would now: Wrath!

The common advice: just keep your head down and make nice…

 

Where is our generation’s Mr. Zimmerman

Whom, by writing, takes a stand

And rips us from complacency, makes us understand:

‘Come mothers and fathers throughout all the land,

And don’t criticize what you can’t understand,

Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command’

And they’re all going to stop buying into your brand.

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