Some debts for the nations
The smiles of money.
On the platforms
of exhausted cities
you're looking for some dough
to afford
a life on credit.
Your heart is burried in sooth.
Bleak plain.
No, it's not Waterloo,
it's the subway platforms.
Yeah, it's the chain
of the subscriptions to stuff.
You saw what that does
to people. Plain shit
for springs without roses.
They can sell my prose all they want,
fuck them.
A few master bankers
for millions of drowned men
in the subways,
all these people harbouring dreams,
these people who don't lift
anything but the crosses on their backs.
To live, you got to pay
To love each other, you got to pay
To die, you got to pay
And then you need insurances too,
to properly feed the paunch,
speculations over sufferings.
Well, let them all die like dogs,
since they come for more back-bending
Here, even hope
must taste, surely,
like the reign of the machines.
If this is the end of the worlds,
if this is hell,
if your heart is falling
down in the dirt,
if dreams are dying,
if everything is dust.
You know it, who awaits us
when we die: worms.
If you're not outraged
to see our lands
still used as wheat fields,
the culture of destitutions ?
Subway platforms, I see ships.
Tell me, how can we dry our sobs?
Breaking out at daybreak
for (the sake of) our loves along the waves
of the ships on the wheat fields.
I hear mankind screaming.
Come on, let's have a beer
to make our overdrafts skyrocket.
the finger to their Dow Jones,
these universes deep inside the cracks
I fuck Wall Street and the rest of them,
so-called God, money, all the apostoles.
We sell our happiness on credit,
Business experts in nightclubs
since our flesh is auctionned
and we fucked the Earth.
This is war, my love (x3)
To the waves sweeping whole countries away
To the big bosses of the total corruption
To my love in her shopping cart
To the ones fired into the fire
To the gang-bang of cultures
To the nuclear (waste) spreading everywhere
To the sons of country cements
To our kids, to our partners
To the ones that are left on the side of the road
To the wounded from the stock exchange rates
rocked by unemployed and enclaves
To our love stories in basements
To the dictatorships of our networks.
Your shitty life on pictures
To the politicians willing to get fucked in the ass
Work more, work more
To the dancing people, poor morons
Everyone with a hard on for dough,
for the financial tyrants,
for some jokers pulling the strings,
Uncle Tom speakers,
transactions that taste of blood.
We'll have to cut their balls off,
too bad if blood flows,
that will allow us to grow flowers
Who knows? The future might be brighter
No matter if we have to destroy everything,
if we have to rebuild the Earth
Comrade banker, you can die,
me, I'll piss on your grave
and make love to my sweetheart on it.
Fuck you Goldman Sachs! Fuck you!
Guest on 2017-06-17
paknot
Benjamin Clément
Fri, 02/02/2018 - 22:18
Sigh...