That's the spirit! Says the colloquial madman,
Pick yourself up by the bootstraps! Says the idiot who doesn't understand gravity,
and yet here are, there we shall be, and it's all what it all is
Blissfully nauseatic our stomach churns but we do not turn,
Our lungs may burn, and we may cough up tar and bits of blood but
we do not turn away, we continue forward
the only way we know how, the same as yesterday
and we wonder why things never change, all while going in circles, digging this ditch with the skin of our feet, pushing an object not down the road, up a hill, but in the circle we've dug ourselves into – all while listening to a man, with a whip for a voice under the guise of a title of authoritative dismissal.
Don't you see, how much better they are than us? Can you not count the degrees, do you not see the badges, all these trophies they bought with their stolen money. Mommy, do you see, I want to be like that man – the crowned one, with an army of peasants who call their selves men.
And we raise children to believe that, if they work hard enough and take enough shit, if they listen well and do as their told, if only they don't fight, they too will grow up, and become like the great-tyrannical men who rule us all