Reload

If I have to see another fucking Union Jack

Flying on the orders of the government, I'm going to be sick

The favourite colours of the heirs of the slavers

Taking everything and stashing it away in a pretty little Caribbean island

The company captains' children are heading uptown

Dressed to the nines for the taking of applause

They like to slap each other on the back for the campaign funds

As the champagne flows at the giving of awards

While the lights grow dim all across our town

It's only debt that trickles down

Ah, behold! Another smoking gun

Reload, reload, reload

They ride in a fleet of cloak-black, bullet-proof Mercs away from the crowds

All staring at themselves in the mirror-glass windows

There's nothing to see so just follow the money all of the way

To a pretty little paradise tax-free Caribbean island

We get what we deserve are the precious little words

That the billionaire oligarchs like to tell themselves

Sitting pretty at the tables of the bent casinos

Counting out the winnings from a fixed-up game of organised thievery

And the gold on the coins is not real

And the margins made are a fucking steal

Ah, behold! Another smoking gun

Reload, reload, reload

So the gold on the coins is not real but money comes like a god

And money acts like a plague, then money acts like a drought

And all we feel is rage and all we hear is rage

We're only fuel for them to burn, we're only fuel for them to burn

Another little death and the game is done

So reload, reload, reload

And the lights grow dim all across our town

It's only debt that trickles down

Ah, behold! Another smoking gun

Reload, reload, reload...