It’s not like I’ve bin keepin’ count nor tallying the score,
but the more I sit and ponder, the-more they have to answer for.
I could cry (along) with (all) the others, I din’ know no different!
But what’s the point? I cannot lie, nor play-act ignorant.
You’re cursed if you believe it, you are doomed if you don’t,
got an axe at your back and a
razor at your throat.
I was signed off as a number, ‘fore I was cuttin’ teeth,
a real-life fuckin’ nightmare, in my deepest, sinless sleep.
Welcome to the royal firm! Puttin’ subjection in subject.
Hidin’ behind faceless layers, but their power goes unchecked.
Worse than Huxley’s “Brave New World”, we’re modified in life,
feedin’ us (on) poisened potions, wrapped-up-in pain, trouble ‘n’ strife.
“They” nearly lost the handle, “they” almost lost the plot,
but now we’re herded for the slaughter, our necks born into tight garottes.
©30.9.2019 Andrew Robert Chapman
Welcome to the royal firm! Puttin’ the subject into slave.
but now we’re herded for the slaughter, they’ve a blind spot.
but now we’re herded for the slaughter, our necks sport their x garotte.