As monsters roam the streets outside,
terrified children cry for their lives.
It just isn’t possible, most of us say—
conspiracy theory, it’ll just go away.

We don’t hear the calls ’cause our ears are shot, so convinced are we that they could not.
We watch all their shows, we clap and we buy,
while children in dark rooms scream and they die.

Uncomfortable topics that cannot be true—surely no monsters, just me and just you.
These things just don’t happen, we say with a smile.
Who on this earth could hurt a child?

Not the elite, not those who would serve,
not her on the telly, on top of the world.
The best among us, the crème de la crème—they couldn’t be evil, maybe us, but not them.

The children who speak? They must be confused.
They couldn’t have possibly suffered abuse.
And we didn’t watch, or send them to die,
because we are good people who turn a blind eye.

The policy people can’t be held to account—they are far too important to let this stuff out.
What can we do, this poor lowly lot,
if they take our children and all that we’ve got?

They laugh in our faces and do silly skits—
pizza parties and frazzle drips.
Beyond justice they sit on their chairs,
beyond reproach in sordid affairs.

Money buys silence, and those with the most
eat our children in twisted toasts.
They pray for material, affluence, and fame.
The children—they don’t remember their names.
But God still remembers the things they have done, and playing in hell will never be fun.

As they wait for the Reaper, he watches and sighs, for even he is drying his eyes.
The things they have done, God doesn’t forgive.
He smiles and laughs as he watches them live.

Something is coming to a boat near you—
certainly not your usual crew.
As light comes in and secrets exposed,
the world is watching these fucking toads.
Tick-tock goes the drip that once made you smile—a hell on earth for the elitist of piles.

Come lie with me now; their demon will call
as the once-worshipped begin on their fall.
Not fast or with haste to the demonic pit—
a slow descent into the centre of it.
A million lifetimes back to back—
what a price to pay for relief from lack.

The children in heaven, they sing all the prayers as God carries them home, away from their cares.
The sacrifice was silly—not them, it was you.
A smile on your face but a soul split in two?

Baal was never your friend; he was God’s second hand.
He was never the boss—he cares not for this land.
But the place that awaits your curated hand—
the glittering glamour that once got you tanned.

He watches with glee as you wave from your tree, awaiting the day he sits with thee.
Your time is up, the lights are gone—
can you live with what went on?

Security calls from your cave under earth;
the damage you did is the ultimate curse.
As you lie in the ruins, the child smiles with glee— closer to God than you hoped to be.

False idols they claim, taller than men,
without a god and without a friend.
They turn on each other and rip it apart—
the empty feeling that lives in the heart.

The roasting, the toasting seems insignificant now. I bet you wish you took that bow.
Worshipping devils who don’t know your name and wait for your soul in eternal flame.