"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 arm tree."
"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 life long.
"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 your prey."
"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 long.
Fa-la-la-la lah. And fiddle-dee-dee.
See: Revolution revolves but once - lèse majesté remains among its stunts