The nightmare, the hammers, the sickles ahead,
The future is bleak, it is black, it is red
The history of horror, the miseries ones fled
Hosting fresh Histories, deciding what’s said
The practice, the shortages, the scarcity of bread
The masters, the deciders, they decide what is fed
The death, the despair, the piles of dead
The records, the mysteries of those who have bled
The judges, the masters pick who fights in their stead
No sacrifice, no compassion for those who have fled
They hold the future in charge of what’s read
They spare the truth, no need, not a shred
No care for the people, not Sally, not Ned
They hardly hesitate to do away with the head
No more individuals, debate put to bed
Prioritizing one thing, their crates full of lead
Acronyms galore, ‘A’ through to zed
Some friendly, familiar, names such as FRED
It’s treachery, it’s over the cliff on a sled
It’s sleeping in slums, no homes but a shed
Subjecting the people to wars of great dread
The future, the truth, their heritage is dead
No time for rest, fueled by fear and plenty of PED
Fearing the wrath of those at the head
Own nothing you will, a requiem of red
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