Sheol
When we are long-dead and our bodies piles of ash
They will be gathered to create a resin
And we will be turned into
The world's best ventriloquist dummies
(Hooray, I'm a real boy now!)
Our deaths politicized, like you made some free society choice to get vaccinated during our plan-demic
Held to account for our ethnostates, but little talk of how we got there
Marketed joyless utopias like Borobidzhan–
Buy me a souvenir of Communism when you go, please?
...Besides my relatives' pain.
Still just a problem to solve
Still an obstacle to a world that could've been ok
I just want my payout from Hollywood
The media
The banks
The IMF
That is all I really care about
My conspirators don't even like me
My conspirators can't even agree on where to go for lunch
Please, tell me my story again
The one without propaganda
Tell me the whole truth
Behind that pizza parlor
When I walk my feet through that crematorium in Europe,
where I finally went back to,
where I belong,
where our roots sprouted us from the ground like shoots of garlic
Our magic and our medicine for so long
Will Euros fall from the sky for me to clutch
Grasping, like someone who wished they'd known the "real" story earlier
Grasping in that cash grab money machine
But I was hiding the story from myself, and all of you, all along.
I will come around, don't worry,
But only on my deathbed
Finally
Moving towards the place I'm supposed to be.
Maybe this time, we will get to have a quiet place for our bones.
