Fanciers

They are turning men into automated spies.
They cloud our vision with fumes of lies.
With grenades of promises and hopes and dreams,
They churn your spirits,
Your ethos they grind.
They tell you how you owe them the guns of your mind,
And there you lose your arms!
And there you surrender!

With convenient truths which they glue to your tongues
You think you have ladders while they hide the rungs.
We climb over our kennels and cages
And boast how loud we speak
And the clever master stands behind
And tightly holds the leash.

They are turning men into cats and dogs;
And fancy species of birds.
We call them leaders
And learn to ascribe their words.

They are masters and manipulators
They are walking shenanigans.
Like magicians they juggle with freedom
And catch you in boxes instead
Like dogs and cats,
And fancy species of birds.
They are traders, vendors and keepers of men.
In Reality, they are cheap fanciers of men.