Cry for the Prostitute, destitute and her merchants
The political machine is turning
And the sour milk of our generation
Will keep on churning, yearning
Not for better but for worse
Mr Politician we erase your words
Your amnesia of wars will become a curse
Sorry lies, oops I mean lines on your teleprompter
Puppets for the illuminators, ‘Ill be back’ Terminator.
Men in Black, flash, back track before you are beaten off it
Black in men, fight and sell themselves to run for office
Well they say if you fall off the horse get back on it, novice
What break’s the camel back? the last straw on it,
Meaning free thinking, hoodwinking
Let’s be honest…
You know something is wrong
You wake up knowing the air is stale;
Your bread is stale, you’re drunk on ale
Always accumulating things you don’t need on sale.
You feel you are an actor on a stage
Like the Will Turman show
Behind your fake smile will the true man show?
The machine is feeding off your wage
Like Rhesus monkeys rattled in a cage
Only to torture you
To keep you half awake, and totally a slave
Trading human blood for oil, so crude!
We cast our lots for position and power, while they poison our food
Who? Ask W.H.O. Who?
We objectify other races and subject them to our abuse
Because we are victimised and this is where our hate arise
But we still try and look surprised
When they retaliate,
Emancipate yourself before the Stockholm syndrome
Takes holds and doesn’t let go
We the victims addicted to the system, the downtown man
Who segregates his heart from what we understand,
Another defective plan
The upper crust with their upper-hand
But I hear the masses groan… You cant cut off the hands that feed you?
What about cutting off the hands that beat you?
How can the rates of crime decrease but social evils never cease
Well that hypothesis, my living thesis leads me to ask
Are bad cops committing treason?
Or are the good robbers just having a better season?
Win-win situation already in place
Like fat cat bribes,
Cream of the crop circle’s wonders and signs
Is their agenda alien or great marketing
To sell the force of
Yes, watch us with our open eyes wide
Shut, in the ghetto, in a rut
Shacked up in estates or shanty huts.
Looting, rioting, or marching against cuts
Against the puppets we vote in with our ballots
The prostitute and her merchants are not listening,
She don’t business as long you mind your business
This diva doesn’t kiss or tell, for high water or hell.
And she’ll out all those who snitches
To protect her riches in Babel
She sit on top of an ocean, slow rocking to the motion
Stars singing their devotions
Disguised in their constellations, their one eyed Trojan.
They seem to be drunk off her love potions
Her humps her humps, her lovely lady lumps
Consolidating all our debts in one large sum
But when she comes to collect,
You can try and run to dens, mountains, or Tibet
But since you empowered this whore,
She’ll repay you with death
Today, her ‘beauty’ glitters even though it’s not gold
Tomorrow, her silver tongue will bring your funeral.
This prostitute must have been born a cancer
‘Coz she’ll move side to side to dodge giving you answers
Her merchants once chased after women of standards;
Now cheating on their purity to submit to
The mother of prostitutes, their master
Illegitimate bastards coz their Father cannot fathom
They would defile themselves for a cheap and quick orgasm
Left forever consequences of empty passions,
now blood thirsty 2-faced assassins.
They smile for the people and kiss your baby
But they are building the ark to ensure their own safety
When billows roll and the rain pours fast,
Those not already secured in the elite class
Will be left on the outside of the ark
To either drown or desperately starve
Decadency and fancy lights lore the mind
She’ll entice you to her bed with foreplay to buy some time,
But once she has you, she’ll tattoo you
On your forehead or right hand “mine”
And like Delilah, She’ll blind you
Cut off your hair, tie you to a chair and despise you.
Her time is coming
When the revolution is summoned
In wars, in words, or in rhymes
And even if I am killed, others will rise
For free thinker’s fire will never out but multiply
Because Lady Truth from the ashes, still her offsprings survive!
The Prostitute’s city will burn with brimstone and sulphur
Retribution for her wicked culture like a vulture
Will be paid back in thousand folds for her acts so vulgar
But now those with their gold, oil, and slave will suffer
For who will buy from them now?
The whole world will watch the political Babylon burn down,
Walls will crumble at a trumpet sound
All those standing who refused to bow
To the system, to the Man, to the golden cow.
Will triumph and taste of freedom for the first time in history
And give their future generations a chance to unravel the mystery,
Which is ‘what is the opposite of our human story of misery?’
Death to the whips that strikes righteous servants
Death to the ships that brings back sweat, blood, tears and burdens,
Death to those slow to speak against her crimes and perversions
Death to the Prostitute and her merchants!