They take a piece of you every day, Never saying why—they just make you pay. The bill lies waiting on the table still, Admission price to their bitter pill.

That shining city upon the hill Now dealt in doses, a numbing fill: Red and blue, indigo and green— Say anything but what you mean.

A pound of flesh, an ounce of soul, The heavy tax of growing old. Oh Martin, Martin, if they’d only dream, But hope to them is just a scheme.

When hatred’s peddled like common vice, And dignity comes with a market price, The children learn to close their eyes, To live the lie, forget the prize.

In this land where truth wears falsehood’s face, And dreams fall dead in the marketplace, The prophets’ words turn hollow and thin— Like morning fog that never lets light in.