The strings they use to control us are often not seen
They push forward their own agenda and turn our minds un-keen
They keep us up high to make us feel we are free, but it is but a prison, a prison in a dream
A trap so cleverly devised that it makes us think we are thinking, our thoughts compromised
They play the flute and we follow the lines, believing we're special, believing we're kind
Everyone lives and everyone dies, how do we know if we've wasted our time
But that's the thing isn't it, we can never really know, but we can always guess, if that makes us feel un-alone
But who is they? Is it us? Is it we?
Maybe THEY is everybody, and we are in a cycle, (with an ever increasing passage fee)