The madness of this world
What madness
We are killing the healers and paying their killers
Bound to the pound and signed our own fate
Consuming its rot confiding in demons
looting the land and soiling the seas
The mother is burning the father is frail
Its shadow is creeping its whispers are vile
The machine it runs rampant its controls are all broken
Our storytellers are paid to swim with its tide
Is this the best we have to offer?
Slogans selling you tomorrow
Copyright © Graham Ross | Year Posted 2024
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