(Sullivan) 2024 If I have to see another fucking Union Jack flying on the orders of the government, I’m going to be sick The favourite colours of the heirs of the slavers, taking everything and stashing it away in a pretty little Caribbean island The company captains’ children are heading uptown all dressed to the nines for the taking of applause They like to slap each other on the back for the campaign funds as the champagne flows at the giving of awards While the lights grow dim all across our town It’s only debt that trickles down Ah, behold! Another smoking gun Reload, reload, reload They ride in a fleet of cloak-black, bullet-proof Mercs away from the crowds all staring at themselves in the mirror-glass windows There’s nothing to see so just follow the money all of the way to a pretty little paradise tax-free Caribbean island We get what we deserve are the precious little words that the billionaire oligarchs like to tell themselves Sitting pretty at the tables of the bent casinos counting out the winnings from a fixed-up game of organised thievery And the gold on the coins is not real And the margins made are a fucking steal Ah, behold! Another smoking gun Reload, reload, reload So the gold on the coins is not real but money comes like a god And money acts like a plague, then money acts like a drought And all we feel is rage and all we hear is rage We’re only fuel for them to burn, we’re only fuel for them to burn Another little death and the game is done Reload, reload, reload And the lights grow dim all across our town It’s only debt that trickles down Ah, behold! Another smoking gun Reload, reload, reload… Published by PRS/MCPS
