| The numbers keep running
|
| Somewhere I can’t follow
|
| To redacted transcripts
|
| And data-rich shadows
|
| Oh, I can feel the hands on me
|
| They labor with loving efficiency
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| To carve away pounds of my flesh
|
| As they comfort me:
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| «This is how it’s supposed to be»
|
| The sources in conflict
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| Revised and provisional
|
| The havens offshore
|
| The funding’s untraceable
|
| But someone’s getting paid
|
| And everyone’s got a theory
|
| Oh, I can feel the hands on me
|
| Pointing me towards the ones I should hate
|
| Don’t tell’em the maths got minds of their own
|
| They want backs to walls
|
| And blame always finds a home
|
| This isn’t what they promised me
|
| Their tide won’t lift me back to my feet
|
| Nickels and dimes weighing me down
|
| And plenty of ocean for me to breathe
|
| Ten thousand lashes for our sins
|
| Don’t know what I’ve lost but I feel it missing
|
| Each voice for itself in this chorus of fools
|
| The future’s a coda, we’re singing the blues
|
| And stealing our notes from the bank of dreams
|
| Whose vaults echo deaf as the tune runs astray
|
| Our number’s up
|
| We all gotta pay |