They sit around in suits and ties
discussing rates and stocks;
they inhale long on thick cigars
and calmly scratch their cocks.
Refrain:
These are the wealthy businessmen,
the ones who turn our earth;
these are the ones who make the cash
and tell us what we're worth.
They bring in papers, thick fat files,
and talk into the night;
they hum and haw and nod and grin,
they know their Will is Right.
They make decisions, changing lives,
as if its all a game;
they move a pawn right off the board,
not giving it a name.
Refrain
They work together way up high,
in an office made of glass;
and when a woman passes by
they're sure to make a pass.
They laugh aloud and slap on backs,
they talk a lot and smile,
they're full of pepped-up energy,
they dare not rest a while.
Refrain
They have no morals and no love,
except for the thing called cash;
they have no worries nor concerns,
except for a market crash.
They preach to us "hard labor"
and "doing what is right",
but all along and all the while
they know these words are trite.
Refrain
They exploit little children
in countries far away;
they pollute streams and rivers
and make blue skies turn grey.
They buy cheap raw material
from countries without wealth,
then sell it back as products
that amputate our health.
Refrain
They are the gods that live with us,
and we their loyal flock,
they love us, need us, hold us, hug us,
until... down goes their stock.