Subject: Lyr Add: The Puppeteers Parade
From:
SPB-Cooperator
Date: 17 Aug 26 - 06:20 AM
THE PUPPETTEERS' PARADE
Songwriter??
There’s a sneering fat man sitting in a TV studio chair,
Sipping vintage brandy, combing back his slicked-back hair.
He tells you that your hospital is crumbling to the floor,
Because a terrified young family just washed up on the shore.
And you swallow every whisper, and you swallow every lie,
While he counts his crypto millions beneath an offshore sky.
(Chorus)
Oh, they’ve got you marching down the high street, banging on the drums,
Fighting with your neighbor for the belly-button crumbs.
While the men who stole your future are laughing in the shade,
You’re just another private in the Puppeteer’s Parade.
You’re screaming at a window where a frightened child hides,
A kid who crossed an ocean on the mercy of the tides.
You say you're "saving Britain" with your tattered plastic flag,
But you’re doing all the dirty work for a billionaire's rag.
So go and turn your back on bosses, stand beside the shipyard gate,
'Cause you will never see a working man get saved by pure, blind hate.
(The mines are closed, the factories gone, the council estates bare,
But don't blame the politician who stripped the cupboard's fayre.
No, blame the ghost in the dinghy, blame the stranger in the queue,
Because it’s easier to punch a man who's poorer than you.
But a fist held up in anger at a brother in distress,
Is a fist that serves the master who left you in this mess.
(So put away the matches, put away the angry stone.
No man who flees a fire should ever stand alone.
Turn your eyes up to the mansion, turn your anger to the crown,
And stop trying to kick a human who is already down.
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sj