Comrades.
A pavement drum, a safety pin, A three-chord scream against the skin Of a world that polished its own sheen While the rust crept in, unheard, unseen. They said the fight was long ago, The fire banked, the embers low. But the air has got that electric taste, A feeling that something has been misplaced.
A voice on the screen, all bluster and bile, Tearing at pages, tearing at style, With a fist of gold and a painted grin, And the old, dark shapes start closing in. They carve out a foe from those not like them, Weave a flag into a poisoned hem. And you hear the echo, the jackboot beat, On the cobblestones of a forgotten street.
So the kids pick up the old guitars, And they look at the world through the cracks and scars. They remember the lore the elders forgot, That the only way to fight the rot Is not with a vote for the lesser dread, Not with the words the pundits have said. It's with common cause, with a shared belief, In pulling the teeth of the titled thief.
For what is the punk scream but a call for the real? A demand for justice we all have to feel. It’s a crowd in a basement, a makeshift stage, Tearing a hole in the gilded cage. And in that space, a truth takes root, Beyond the tailored suit and the polished boot: That the soil belongs to the hands that till, The factory's might to the worker's will.
They build their walls, they spin their lies, They watch for fear in each other's eyes. But the flaw in their empire, the crack in the stone, Is the simple, stubborn fact of the seed they've sown. The more that they hoard, the more that they strain, The more they reveal the weakness in their chain. For a house divided, built on greed and on hate, Is a house that's just waiting on a different fate.
And the idea persists, a persistent flame, That doesn't need a billionaire's name. It's the whisper in the factory, the hope in the field, The truth that a different world can be revealed. It’s the rhythm of the picket, the poet's rhyme, The steady, patient march of time. And that's the tune the tyrants fear, The song the fascist cannot hear. So let the empire fall, let the old flag tear, Communism is the answer, always waiting there.