Why don’t we all strap bombs to our chests
And ride our bikes to the next G7 picnic?
It seems easier with every clock tick.
But whose will would that represent?
Mine? Yours? The rank and file?
Or better yet, the government?
But I don’t wanna catalyze, synthesize the second Final Solution.
Don’t wanna be the Steve Smith of the revolution.
Do you see the analogy? We’re the Oilers, the World Bank the Flames!
Two minutes remain in the seventh game of the best-of-seven series!
Yeah, Jesus saves! Gretzky scores!
The workers slave. The rich get more.
One wrong move, we risk the cup.
Play the man, not the puck.
Why don’t we plant a mechanic virus and erase the memory
Of the machines that maintain this capitalist dynasty?
And yes, I recognize the irony.
The system I oppose affords me the luxury of biting the hand that feeds.
That’s exactly why privileged fucks like me
Should feel obliged to whine and kick and scream.
Yeah, until everyone has everything they need.