The priests in white coats are carving up another offering,
Your son, your daughter - send them to us for offing.
Once in our hands, they will be dead long before they're in their
coffin.
A slow, tormented sacrifice is our new-fangled device.
So long drawn-out, unnoticeable, with a treatment that's chimerical,
We can all pretend we're doing them good with this cruel chemical,
And just lock-up all Kafkas whose axes might shatter our ocean ice.
Or why not re-introduce one of our old favourites,
One which can turn men into mice with but one slice?
Lobotomize the wise, rescue them from fate's roll of the dice,
By fulfilling their worst nightmares all at once.
After all, destiny can't rob them when they have nothing left.
So turn a sage into a dunce. After their spirit has lost its heft,
They'll be easier for both of us to control. Let your consciences lull.
Have no fear: if they continue to talk back - ohhh, the temerity! -
We'll follow it up with some electro-convulsive therapy!
If there's one thing we can't stand its talk of 'the soul'.
In our view, men are genetically-programmed machines,
Tiny cogs who are simply no use to us when they're on "the dole".
We resent it very much when a good slave asks what it all means.
Let's all pretend the notion that virtue is developed is a myth.
That poetry and philosophy are just some sacred shibboleth.
There is something inveterately wrong with your own kith -
If they throw you a sad, betrayed look, just plead the Fifth!
Sweeter to believe than that their was some fault in their
education,
Your own sins for which you now seek this perverse and awful
oblation.
As we rob another life of its savour, for the slightest anomalous
behaviour,
Drugging your kids until their brains are no bigger than a hen's,
The cheque in our wallets, the fake lump in our gullets, shall be our
"amen"s.
So, please, submit this to your most penetrating lens.
Would you like us to operate, or have you still left some decency
and common-sense?