Politics is the killervision,
contract people are the deal.
It takes thirsty hours
to cross the surging dream.
You can’t close your eyes.
Your mind will drift
when you try to reset
at the edge of the bridge.
Look out, you asshole!
Waves of heat will burst
and in the village emerge
as the new order from across the border.
There are supervisors,
there are arms.
You can’t get them out.
If you have the job: feel it.
Few hours more ahead
and it will be nightfall.
The radio and the beat of your heart:
They are upstairs and they are charged.
E-mails are waiting,
assistants and reports.
You pick up the phone,
a home run with the media.
Politics is a weakness,
the killerweapon disease.
You can’t play it loud, there’s plenty to hide.
You can play it at midnight.
The path leads to bodies.
You get what you need.
Satellites offer disinformation
for the hell of hours data-real.
Automation is employed,
pushing of the joystick.
Guerillas gainin’ ground
staring at the screen.
Lyrics & Music: Michel Montecrossa, © Mira Sound Germany