Myths Of The Near Future

Oh, bankers, you sit on your sweaty thrones, Staring at screens, counting your loans. You think you’re gods, masters of fate, But your greed is a joke, your vision’s too late.
You design your products, your schemes, your lies, Selling the planet while the biosphere dies. You strangle mankind with your purse-string grip, Imagining yourselves as the kings of the ship.

Fat Sweaty Bankers

Quiet Fray

Golden Skans

klaxons

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