I don’t know who you are
You don’t know who you are
You have money in your eyes
Too much money in your eyes
Layers over layers you bury yourself under
And try to teach me lessons
With your moral apostle finger
Fingers reeking of money
Money hoarded, money unjustly distributed,
Money, the mirror of your emptying soul
Bank account overflowing,
You don’t know who you are
They tell you that you’re content
And blessed
You have everything you have and want
Everything burying you
And you think that I am suffering
That I am lacking
Things, possibilities, freedom,
I am not imprisoned here,
You think my choices are foolish and wrong
The pointed buried finger
The ironed mouth cooking and trying to speak
Growing larger, biting more, through the finger
That can still move
Under the mountain of dead things
That lost all meaning
The beautiful house rotting on the inside
Emptiness, screams, you made money your worst enemy
You bound yourself to it
Reigning all over you
Your life in its hands
And you pick on me
Peck at me
Judging the way I live my life
You look at my bank account and
Think that I am selling myself short
You don’t see me as a human being
But as an embodied lack of money
You impose your way of wasting yourself on me
Telling me what to do
Telling me that everything I do is wrong
Think about the money, at what cost,
You have no idea even though you do
You need company in your act of living the lie
I have grown up in the country where money rules
On the labour and backs of others
I have seen corpses walking up and down the street
Sitting still, nothing to say, nothing to do
But preach and boast about unused possessions
Trying to lure one into the pact with the lethargic devil
You sold your soul for money
I grew up around those trolls and cogs
Of the machinery that robs mankind’s
Meaningfulness, purposefulness, creativity, life and soul,
I wish you’d stop talking, you exhaust me,
You vampire, draining me, energy-robber,
You made money a bad thing,
You don’t know yourself at all
And want to teach me lessons about
A life that you don’t even live
Playing by the rules that have been
Established centuries ago, can you even think and feel
For yourself, layers over layers, closing your eyes,
Bitterness in every bone,
Bile in your mouth,
You hold that finger high
And think that I am so below you
And that I require your help,
Who do you think you are
All I can smell and see is
That judgemental cold self-dehumanised finger
That stinks of money hoarded in a greedy bubble.
Croque-Melpomene 