Nepotism in a tailored suit, making calls from a polished room, They stir up trouble, then bill the public, and call the smoke a bloom. They light the match, then sell the ash, then say the cost is fair, And the folks below keep footing the check while they barely notice air. They squeeze the wells, then watch the prices jump up on the screen, Then hand out “help” with a borrowed pen and a smile that looks too clean. The aid gets named like mercy, but the ledgers tell the truth, The same old names stay fat and fed while the rest just lose their youth. Money just moves from hand to hand, but it never leaves their side, They build the mess, then cash the checks, and call it a patriotic ride. We pay for the war, we pay for the cure, we pay for the whole damn show, And their friends in the oil line laugh all the way as the numbers roll below. They talk of duty, they talk of threat, they talk like it’s all for good, But every line they draw in ink turns profit into neighborhood. The public keeps the lights on, while the private planes stay warm, And every “crisis” comes with a price tag shaped like a perfect storm. So read the fine print, watch the names, see who’s getting fed, While they sell you a reason and a ribbon of red. If the bill keeps rising and the same hands grin, You’re not looking at a rescue — you’re looking at a spin. Money just moves from hand to hand, but it never leaves their side, They build the mess, then cash the checks, and call it a patriotic ride. We pay for the war, we pay for the cure, we pay for the whole damn show, And their friends in the oil line laugh all the way as the numbers roll below.
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