bulletproof

analista

This song is a whirlwind of contradictory escapism and biting satire, beginning as a manifesto of personal liberation that quickly spirals into absurdity. The speaker vows to change their life through a cascade of grandiose, clashing fantasies—from sailing oceans and buying magic carpets to leading peasant revolutions and becoming a messiah. The imagery is deliberately excessive and unstable, blending whimsical dreams with militant activism and extravagant consumerism, all undercut by the hint of chemical escape (“maybe take another blast”). This opening torrent of “I’m going to” declarations feels less like a plan and more like a frantic performance of freedom, revealing a deep desire to break out of a confined reality—be it a prison, a bed, or a stagnant life.

The chorus sharply pivots, breaking the fourth wall to acknowledge the speaker’s own unreliability. In a moment of raw, cynical honesty, they admit, “OK you don’t believe me, I’m not as truthful as I seem,” and then point the finger outward. They contrast their own wild fabrications with the more polished, systemic lies sold by the “scammers” in “Ivory Towers” who traffic in “The Dream.” This turn frames the preceding stanzas not as genuine aspiration, but as a parody of the empty promises and grandiose language used by politicians, gurus, and advertisers—lies the public routinely accepts even while doubting the earnest dreamer.

The final verses lean fully into this satirical role, with the speaker adopting the hollow rhetoric of a populist reformer, promising cheap houses, jobs for all, an end to weapons sales, and draining the swamp. The fade-out delivers the masterstroke: a chilling, spoken rendition of the “Crooked Man” nursery rhyme. Its repetitive, haunting “crooked” imagery—men, truth, words, suits—draws a direct line from childhood fables to adult political corruption, suggesting the entire system is built on warped foundations. The poem thus becomes a layered critique: of the daydreams we sell ourselves, the lies sold to us by those in power, and the crooked house we all inhabit, laughing hollowly at the absurdity of it all.

quiet.

𝔭𝔰𝔶𝔠𝔥𝔬 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔡

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