"I'm right, you're wrong," sings a bright, cheery song, with
its cheery, clenched fists to force ere long compliance
strong that I'll belong my whole life long.
"You're wrong, I'm right," croons that tune quite bright,
with its cudgels' might to insure some fright; "Obey the
rules," it sings to me," or else you can swing from our yard
"I'm right, you're wrong" sings the sing-along song, with
demands it insists I sing loud and strong or fall headlong
into its raging throng, which will have me belong my whole
"You're wrong," I say in an individual's way, "and that
bright, cheery song is no sweet bouquet, but chains to
convey compliance quite gray; I'll not long stay to remain
"You're right," you scream in your raging dream, "We'll bind
your wrists to insure our scheme, for slavery is our real
theme; obey our rules, and ne'er blaspheme. The collective
supreme is the right regime.
"You're wrong," I note and herein I wrote of your bright,
cheery gloat that cannot sugarcoat or convince me to vote
for the lies you float: "Compliance," I quote, is what you
promote. Just how many were then smote?
"I'm right, you're wrong," reprises your bright, cheery
song, with its cheery, clenched fists to force ere long
compliance strong to insist we'll belong our whole life
Fa-la-la-la lah. And fiddle-dee-dee.
Revolution revolves but once - lèse majesté
remains among its stunts