Текст: Propagandhi. Supporting Caste. Potemkin City Limits.

Francis didn't give a fuck about the rollbacks,
overproduction, reduced demand.
Never gave much thought to disputed contracts.
In his short life he'd only ever known
panic, fear, pain, darkness, pandemonium
in this hell that was his home
and 4th quarter expectations expedited their demise.
The panic grew as the humans stopped among them,
when the screaming began.
Francis shut his eyes and felt the hand of the humanity
brush over him but then his killers back turned for a moment.
A blinding ray of light spread across the floor.
In a crimson pool he saw his own reflection
as he bolted for the door.

Not just some fractured fairy tail,
although I wish that that were true.
This is a fable far too real
that we somehow still cling to.

The storylines that bridge the chasms between cognition and belief.
Any other plausible denial that might offer some relief.
From the dissonance that francis left screaming in his wake.
Deep into the heart of the cities parklands he made good his escape.
And where for five months he ran free and replayed his only fond memory.
Just a warm and distant dream of his mothers loving eyes upon him.
Francis made it farther than she did. A quarter mile just short
of the city limits they finally captured him.
And there's a statue right behind where it's written to remind
us of all their contributions. To me it marks "potemkin city limits"
as francis cast in bronze to the realm of god.

Not just some fractured fairy tail.
Although I wish that that were true.
This is a fable far too real.
We somehow still cling to