Beating the Machine is a verse I wrote in 2020 challenging the increasing trend of public shaming on social platforms. And a frank narrative as to how the tabloid media, in particular, are acting as attack force. In a sense, it is an open letter to mankind. Saying, quite simply, please be kind. This arrangement pays homage to Waiting To Die by (Hed) P.E.
Listen to Beating The Machine by Richard Charles Stevens (Waiting Suite)
That we are feeding the machine
Do we not appreciate the weakness of our schemes
It’s as heedless as it seems
Making crude assumption based on reams of skewed pretence
Screaming bloody murder when we muse the need to vent
Every hateful word is one much later we’ll repent
For thirty silver pieces are fictitious when they’re spent
The media are pulling all the strings
Growing ever seedier and clipping all our wings
They create the narrative
Each time the songbird sings
Anything to get us good and riled
The vision they attest is really no less than outlandish
For they brandish weapons some way from pristine
Lengths they will traverse to hurt are needlessly obscene
Indeed they’re every bit as heedless as they seem
Needling each seedling unto the point of bleed
Anointing joints with chloroform and bleach
To further populate their reach
Blotting each horizon with disease
The media are pulling all the strings
Growing ever seedier and clipping all our wings
They create the narrative
Each time the songbird sings
Anything to get us good and riled
Indeed it’s barely anything
When victory admits defeat to beaten victims perishing
Indeed it’s barely anything
When victory admits defeat to beaten victims perishing
Victory admits defeat to beaten victims perishing
Do we not see judgement calls as cause to be concerned
Shoring up the stubborn walls with rubble from the urn
Burning bridges
Turning tricks to topple our opponents
Unaware where to declare the onus
.
Do we not see
The open road we opt to clutter
Something’s melting in our mouths
It ain’t no nob of butter
Tutting under oath at the life choices of another
Is no way for our voices to recover
We puppeteers are pulling all the strings
Growing in enormity and broadening our wings
Should we create the narrative
Each time the songbird sings
Then we’re anything but beaten in the wild
Anything but beaten in the wild
Keeper of The Crimson Quill
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© Copyright: Rivers of Grue (Hed) P.E.
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