The midas fist

The conveyor belt conformity of Mammon's production line,

manufacturing insecurity see's the renewal of this design

Cutting off the pieces till we fit into the mould

of these black and white mentalities we've constantly been sold,

of racism, and sexism, of difference as a foe,

not strength built through diversity as nature often shows

Question marks meant for the outside world are worn instead on hearts,

when our castle walls are crumbling outside interest soon departs

Playing Judas to our messiah, fingering the silver in our purses,

till what we were is just a memory, lost on stage as life rehearses

for a show in which we're scripted as only extras and one liners,

blacklisted from the credits by these faustian designers

Performing for a pittance in a role producing riches,

the excess's they dangle lead without the use of switches

So don't be fooled to thinking that the smiles reach the eyes,

for the midas hands are simply just a fist in loose disguise