Cidadão Anónimo

I dreamed of a vision
There were men beyond my bed
The Methuselah wardens of old
Holding the strings to my head
And thus they spoke:
We have control of the input
Our tools are in disguise
Your own men are our voice
Your own kind our fist
You shall be fed our mind
You shall be grown and groomed
To, when numb, be let lose
When ripe, spread our seed

Anónimo