Chorus from a Little Red Dot

They slash, they burn
They farm the peat
And then repeat
The cycle turns
Over the days
They make a haze

What have we learnt across the centuries?
That prosperity can be poison
Distilled by exploitation?

No, that is not what we have come to know:
Our forefathers worked by sweat and toil,
But we by unconfessed guile.

How do city-states fatten in their years?
Gold comes from ash and blood and tears.

They slash, they burn
They farm the peat
And then repeat
The cycle turns
Over the days
They make a haze

Here in Atlantis the crying and blame
Have begun—perverse incense—to rise,
As once did in Tyre's skies.

We claim we are poor because we seek wealth.
But we are not farming barren soil,
Do not need to sweat at all.

Why do city-states anger at their kings?
We vote for them to give us things.

They slash, they burn
They farm the peat
And then repeat
The cycle turns
Over the days
They make a haze

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With apologies to il miglior fabbro, for this comes from a rock that is waste land.