Written as a protest song.
Crocodiles with plastic smiles,
glaring from the TV.
They wouldn't live, god forbid,
under this brown fog of debris.
They'll take their land, from a working hand,
and gut him for his misery.
They'll deal their cards, with kind regards,
and tell you 'Arbeit Macht Frei'.
Oh, oh, work sets you free
Oh, oh, from a life of liberty.
So we'll walk the line, or pour their wine,
for a glimpse of some autonomy.
But they'll take it all, and orchestrate our fall,
in this fucked up, one way economy.
You think your free, and they agree
Just as long as you can't see.
So read the books, about the crooks,
that they label blasphemy.
Oh, oh Work sets you free
Oh, oh from a life on liberty