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The passage presents a relentless cascade of universal declarations that “everybody knows” a series of grim, interconnected truths about society, love, danger, and fate. It opens with a mood of fatigue and resignation, asserting that days are overloaded and people keep their fingers crossed, while the war is over and the good guys lost and the fight was fixed. A stark economic divide follows: the poor stay poor and the rich get rich. This chorus of shared knowledge is reinforced by a maritime metaphor about a leaking boat and a captain’s line signaling impending trouble. The refrain widens to personal certainties: someone received a box of chocolate and a long-stemmed rose, implying romance or affection that is acknowledged but complicated by public scrutiny and discretion. The lyrics then move to infidelity or indiscretion, noting that many people you just had to meet were without clothes, alongside the claim that a plague is coming and moving fast, signaling a rapid, unavoidable danger. Further, there is a blunt, lurid image of nakedness, and a promise that revealing truths will come about. The speaker notes that the listener is in trouble and acknowledges what they have been through, tying personal history to broader, existential threats—from the bloody cross on Calvary to the beach in Malibu—bridging religious symbolism with secular, coastal imagery, and suggesting an imminent, pervasive force that is drawing near. The narrative builds toward a culminating moment: take one last look at a sacred heart before it blows, implying a final, catastrophic revelation or rupture. The closing line, repeated with the phrase “everybody knows,” reinforces the themes of shared knowledge and inevitability—the sense that a comprehensive, inescapable awareness underpins all the described conditions, culminating in a looming, irreversible event.

I work long hours for low pay, wasting my life away. The rich have all the control and want to know everything about us. Politicians don't care about the struggling people on the streets. They tax us unfairly while the banks thrive. It's time for a change.

I work long hours for low pay, feeling like I'm wasting my life away. I drown my troubles in alcohol when I get home. It's frustrating to see the rich getting richer while people like us struggle. I wish I could wake up to a better world, but it's not that easy. Politicians should focus on helping those in need instead of just looking out for themselves. There are people on the streets who can't afford to eat while the government spends money on unnecessary things. It's a shame how this country keeps pushing us down. The world is unfair, and the rich have all the power. I want to know what you think and what you do, even though it seems like you don't understand the struggles I face. My hard-earned money is heavily taxed, and it feels like it's all for nothing.

The sun swore an oath with its rising and its fall, speaking against the wicked with no voice at all. The moon took the vow with its phases and its light, testifying in silence through the watches of the night. The stars and their legions answer the call, swearing by the ancient one who made them stand tall. No luminary wavers or celestial breaks rank; those who walk in darkness have the heavens to thank for the witness that condemns them. The voice says, “look” and “remember,” that every oath is infused. The light the wicked refused is framed as opposed by a testimony spoken from the sky. The luminary weavers keep rank, and the testimony of the celestial order condemns those who refuse light. The sun sees every deed with its unrelenting eye. The moon records secrets whispered in the dark. The stars bear witness with an everlasting spark. The oath was sworn in heaven before the earth was formed. Those who break the covenant are broken and deformed, while the righteous keep the rhythm and know the oath is true. The wicked try to flee, but the heavens always knew. The lesson is the witness and the lesson is the vow; the guides have written it down so the record shows them how. The luminaries testify against darkness now: the sun swears, the moon testifies, and the stars bear witness. The oath is unbroken, and the heavens will not be silent.

I work long hours for low pay, sacrificing my soul and wasting my life. I drown my troubles away, feeling trapped in this sad reality. It's a shame how the world has become for people like us. I wish I could wake up and escape this truth, but it's real. Living in a new world with an old soul, where the rich only know the rich.

I'm sick and tired of it. Left wingers, liberals, you need to be fucking showing your opponent's guts on there. Okay? You need to be gutting them. You need to be shanking these motherfuckers and letting their fucking letting their intestines just ride on stage. What the fuck is this shit, man? You cannot have a bigger fucking layup. You could not have had a bigger fucking layup than a horrible candidate like Herschel Walker. Sure. He was prepared very well. And Herschel Walker actually had a good a Thing we do need to make sure we do, we got to keep attracting younger viewers that you know grow up on TikTok you know when they're eight nine ten eleven twelve even though they shouldn't be. Point three it's like all here now this guy is down he's dead These guys are, like. And fatally wounded. They're not even, like, they're not even running. They're not even, like, cowering and running away and screaming in fear. There's, okay. Well, they did it. We got our shots. Okay. Is this guy down? Oh, shit. Well, okay. Well, we brought the white called shock, you fucking idiot. It's called shock. Anything that happens I mean, like, holy shit, guys. If you live in Florida, I have an opportunity for you. If you wanna earn $100,000, let me know. Jesus Christ. Flags, we can put that over the bleeding part. Assuming he got shot and it's actually right. A flag. And then chest. This guy The 874. Bellevue Drive, and I'm gonna kill you with my AR 15. Like, that's what the that's the type of messages they were leaving in this dude's, all this dude's office, and he's resigning. Like, he's literally this is his last term. So so I think that people are a lot more radical. It's hurt poor people that they can they they can afford housing in Berkeley. I don't know how that. My understanding is that the property owners who have properties there choose just not to rent it at all. Yeah. Kill them. Kill those motherfuckers and murder those motherfuckers in the street. Let the streets let the streets soak in their fucking red capitalist bloods, dude.

The ancient one claims the earth will hold, but the dust will remember and the bones will take names. The righteous sleeping in the silence of the grave will stand up in their glory, as the breath that spoke the stars blows the stone away. No grave is permanent, and the tombs will split like parchment at the dawning of the day. The dead are not the slave to death; the dead are not alone. Ration is described as the final refute of every tyrant’s power and every wicked throne. A voice says, “write it down,” and the message is presented as something the ages must understand: “The dead shall rise. The dead shall stand.” The dead are called by name, and the elect one stands among them with the keys of death and hell. Their resurrection is described as the terror of the night and the promised wound that finally gets to heal. The righteous are identified as the children of the never-ending dawn. Their bodies are remade, their weariness is gone, and they will not rise into the glory of the light as something unspecified but as a definitive coming reality. The text repeats its central declaration: “The earth will not hold what the ancient one claims. The dust will remember. The bones will take names.” It closes by reaffirming, “The dead are not alone.”

Everybody knows the dice are loaded and people rose with their fingers crossed. Everybody knows the war is over and the good guy's lost. Everybody knows the fight was fixed. The poor stay poor and the rage get rage. That's how we go. Everybody knows.

From Cork to Belfast, voices rise, ending the silence and lies. They try to chain the Irish with flags and fears, but they've outgrown those puppet ears. Borders were drawn with blood and deceit, turning neighbors to enemies. The Irish see the towers, the wires, the spray, the games they play, the price they pay, and refuse to be cattle to brand and bind. They are the storm. The spell is broken, the lion roars. This isn't protest, it's remembrance; not rebellion, but reverence. They're not just waking, they're taking back the earth they've stolen, the truth they've twisted, the lives they've broken. The Irish are the many, and their oppressors are the few, and they are done with playing the fool. The system cracks and the light comes through. Ireland stands and so should you.

Speaker 0 wrote words for “the ones who walk the line” when “the world is burning and the stars refuse to shine.” In this time, “the righteous will be counted” while “the wicked [are] swept away,” and “the path is getting narrow at the closing of the day.” The message urges not to take the “left hand road” where “the shadows make their bed” or the “right hand path” where “the proud have always tread,” but to “walk the center where the light has always been” and to “walk the narrow where the faithful enter in.” The voice instructs, “write it down and be complete,” stating, “The path is for the righteous. The path is for the fleet.” The exhortation continues: “Walk in the light while the darkness is rising.” “The years are disappearing into the judgment throne,” and the warning is to not “trade your birthright for a moment of the lie,” not to “sell your soul for a kingdom that will die,” and not to be drawn away from what is real. The righteous are described as shining “like stars in the firmament above,” while the wicked are said to “burn like chaff in the furnace of the shove.” The exhortation is presented as a standing warning “the seal,” with “the path is narrow, the path is real.” Speaker 0 says the voice commands again, “write it down, it'll never fade,” and declares, “The faithful walk the narrow. The faithful are the saved.” Speaker 1 repeats, “Walk in the light while the darkness,” and Speaker 0 adds, “But you won't get lost.”

I'm dead and gone. This is society that did me wrong. I died a 100 times in my life. Nobody loves me. Nobody cries. I always gotta fight to stay alive or die. When I come correct, you're fucked. Biggest cock in the annals. Taking bets. Fake fucking bitch. I'm getting rich. Triangle type of hit. COVID type of grip. Agent Smith. Virus strip. Demon's field of pain. Angels filled my body with the rain. It takes away the flames when they kill me. Water type of drip, decent type of flip. Mud is getting thick. The ship is sinking quick. I fly the rock into the abyss. I don't pray for shit before it's flipped. dragonfly, and giant shift. Underground tunnels filled with pits. Stars overhead that never shift. Looking at the sky, it's a gift. I'm ready for the shift. Excavation Pro, I'm Rachel B.

The speaker argues that for centuries, the so-called golden billion has practically lived off of other peoples, ripping apart poor nations and peoples in Africa, exploiting Latin America, and exploiting the countries of Asia. This is presented as a long-standing pattern that is widely remembered and felt, not only by leaders but by the common people of many countries. According to the speaker, ordinary people in various nations can sense “our struggle for our independence, for our true sovereignty” and the connection between those aspirations and the broader international picture. The speaker contends that Western elites are driven by a strong desire to freeze the current unfair state of affairs in international affairs, thereby perpetuating the existing imbalance. The message emphasizes that this is not only a political or elite concern, but a shared sentiment among populations who recognize a link between their own aspirations for autonomy and the global dynamics at play. The speaker characterizes the Western groups as having “stuffed their stomachs with human flesh” and “stuffed their pockets with money” for centuries, framing this as a corrupt, predatory pattern. Concluding, the speaker asserts that “this ball of vampires is about to end,” implying an imminent end to the predatory dynamic.

- The speaker references a faded parchment where “the four fathers carved the cold times,” marking a legacy tied to midnight and a path where “a cargo floods the veins of every open road,” and “White trash on a mirror of a bloodline's rifle claim.” The image suggests a turbulent inheritance where old ideals collide with present upheaval, described as “thunderheads” ready to drown the original flame, with trains “louder than the liberty bell.” - New tides are pulling the future, described as “a liberty spell,” while the script has “flipped since the iron quill first caught the spark,” yet “the fire in our veins still refuses to go dark.” There is a sense of reversal or betrayal, with questions like “Why trash me in there?” and the notion that “We call it mercy symphony as the original score gets overthrown.” - The parchment “cracks under four and ink,” and “softly the dream begins to sing,” implying that the foundational document or ideals are breaking apart, yet the dream persists through singing or expression. - The line “Yet the blood that signed at first still echoes through the blade” reinforces that the original commitment or violence of the pledge remains audible in present actions, while “Grass real low so snake and avoid the blood” suggests evasion or danger surrounding this legacy. - The speaker questions “Why trash billionaire?” and notes that “Haunts stacked against free victory,” with the claim that “They bought the rewrite while the” implying intentional manipulation or ownership of history or outcomes to undermine freedom. - Overall, the passage juxtaposes a revered founding heritage with current distortions and powerful forces (billionaires) that attempt to rewrite or suppress the original values, while the passion or “liberty spell” and the enduring heartbeat of the original bloodline persist despite attempts to silence or replace them.

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded and fixed. The poor save food, while the rich get rich. Everybody knows that's how we go.

The speaker argues that the United States is owned by foreign corporations, stating that Nixon opened up foreign trade, and as a result, people in Europe, the common market, Spain, and other places “don’t care about The United States forest.” He asserts that the United States has been sold out by people who care only about money, claiming he has "had all the money in the world three times" and had to give it back to keep “the game” going. He describes money as a game, noting it’s “only real to the people who work for it,” while the people who don’t need to work for money treat it as a monopoly game that is “a game of paper.” He lists his own wealth—a production company, a recording company, a Beverly Hills mansion, Rolls Royces and Ferraris—stated as “everything money can buy,” but emphasizes that “it’s all on paper,” accomplished through companies and tax loopholes. The speaker contends that the people who live at the level of wealth “don’t care about the average, honest mule that just goes back and forwards to work,” nor about the children in the streets who are marginalized by this upper echelon. He claims that when those children fall down to his level, he identifies with them because he was a “throwaway also.” This leads to a reflection on care: “do you really care?” and questions who else cares, asserting that anyone who cares is often regarded as crazy. He then shares his personal experience of fighting this system, stating he has spent fifteen years in the nut ward for attempting to stop “the trees from being cut down,” and for trying to rearrange “a lifestyle of a bunch of people who don’t wanna change.” He suggests that change is inevitable, saying they “gonna change because the cold wind is blowing.”

Do not despair, the misery upon us is the passing of greed and the bitterness of men who fear human progress. The hate of men will pass, dictators will die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people. As long as men die, liberty will never perish. Soldiers, don't give yourselves to brutes who despise and slave you, who regiment your lives, tell you what to do, think, or feel, who drill you, diet you, treat you like cattle, and use you as cannon fodder. Don't give yourselves to these unnatural, machine men with machine minds and machine hearts. You are not machines or cattle, you are men.

“The pen is moving, the ink is permanent.” The names of the righteous are “carved in the firmament,” and “no hand can erase them” and “no tyrant can scratch the stone.” Those who “walked in mercy” are “the ones the book has known,” while “the wicked” are “a vapor” and “a shadow on the page” whose names “are not recorded” and “vanish with the age.” The message warns not to “sell your soul for a kingdom made complete” or chase “a temporary throne,” urging instead to let one’s name be sealed as the “righteous are the written,” facing “defeat” for the wicked. “Written in the book.” “We’ll inherit the dawn.” The “sons of the shadow” will “wish they were never born,” while “the elect one reads the ledger with eyes that never close.” The elect one knows “the ones who gave the water,” and distinguishes paths: “he knows the ones who chose the left hand path,” the “right hand lie,” and the “middle road of mercy.” The faithful are said to “lock” what is “written,” and the admonition is to “let your name be sealed in fire.” The “book of life is open,” and “the voice that write it down” sets “the warning” as “the way the righteous are recorded.” The “wicked are the prey.” “They were never born.” “The elect one reached the ledger.” With “eyes that never close,” he knows “the ones who gave the water.” “Don’t let it fade.” “Excavate.”

I've been selling my soul, working overtime for bullshit pay, wasting my life away. It's a shame what the world's become for people like me and you. I wish I could just block it out. Your dollar hates shit, and it's tax and owe. You're the ex man. Some of us can't say what we know is true. Politicians look out for minors, not just on an island. There are folks in the street with nothing to heat, on milk and welfare. If you're 5 foot 3 and £300, taxes ought not to pay. Young men are running themselves six feet in the ground. The world's got to do with people like me, people like you. I wish I could wake up and it not be true, but it is. We're living in a new world because they're X Men, known for X Men. Oliver Anthony, north of Richmond.

You took their bread, took their land, took their dignity. You thought the game was over and the law was might makes free, but the ledger is not balanced by the weight of your gold. The crier is a story told in the courts of the light where the ancient one sits. Your empire is a vapor; your throne is in bits. The poor will walk the pastures that the wicked stole with lies, and their tears will be the water for a garden in the skies. The voice said, “Write it down,” so the promise be complete: the poor inherit the earth. The poor inherit the earth, rise, inherit the earth. The poor will eat the poor. The ones who had no advocate now have thrones on earth. The ones who wept in silence have dried their final tear. No more will the oppressor feast while the righteous beg for crumbs. The judgment is a hammer; the judgment is a drum. The poor will be the princes of a kingdom made of light. Their rags will turn to robes; their darkness will turn to bright. Don’t think the scales are broken; don’t think the dead is lost. The poor inherit everything; the rich have paid the cost. The voice that said, “Write it down,” will let the ages understand: the poor inherit the earth, the poor inherit land. The poor. Judgment is a drum. The poor will be the princes of a kingdom made of night. Their rags will turn to robes; their darkness turn to bright. Don’t think the scales are broken; don’t think the debt is lost. The poor inherit everything. The rich have paid the cost. The voice that write it down. Let the ages understand. The poor inherit the earth. The poor inherit land. The poor inherit.

Speaker 0: Rising sun, a shadow fell. A tale of prosperity turned to a summer spell. The bubble streets were cold. Family struggling stories left untold.

I'm selling my soul working endless overtime for lousy pay, then wasting my life away. It's a shame how things are, for people like us. I wish politicians cared about the people struggling on the streets, with nothing to eat, while the wealthy prosper. It's unfair that taxes support unhealthy lifestyles, while young men are dying because this country keeps pushing them down. It's a damn shame. I wish I could wake up and it not be true, but this new world is harsh. Our money's worthless, taxed to the point of meaninglessness, all for the benefit of the rich. I'm selling my soul for bullshit pay.

They say it’s progress; we call it a plot. Flood the streets, maybe the people forgot. But hear the echo from seven to six. Liberty Bell still rings. Don’t miss this. Rise up America, grab the bill.

Speaker 0 presents a chorus of universal familiarity with a series of grim social truths. The core claims are: - Everyone knows the war is over, and the good guys have lost; the fight was fixed. - Economic inequality persists: the poor stay poor, the rich get rich. - A sense of inevitable failure pervades: the boat is leaking and the captain lied. - A shared broken feeling remains, and the deal is rotten. - Racial oppression persists: “Old Black Joe still picking cotton for your ribbons and bow.” - There is a sense of exposure or revelation implied by “a meter on your bed that will disclose what everybody knows.” - The audience is reminded that you’re in trouble, and everyone knows what you’ve been through. - The line references shared religious or moral reckoning: “From the bloody cross on top of Calvary.” Overall, the passage communicates pervasive, acknowledged hardship across political, economic, racial, and moral dimensions, underscoring a widespread awareness of systemic failings and personal trouble.

Crops won't grow. Reduce the distance. Let's think first, desire doesn't die, it's suppressed. I can't be silent, bullets are fired. You inflict wounds, you make flowers bloom. You take advantage of a smiling face. When I remember, I pull the thirst from people's hands, I eat to my heart's content. One commits a crime, one endures a crime. Your connection is with small towns, why not save the farms from slums? So many wounds are healed, so many flowers bloom when you arrive. Whether it's the moon in the sky or the earth.

The speaker delivers a relentless, triumphant comeback narrative centered on resurrection and unyielding strength. They declare that a “bloodbath” has been waged against them, yet they insist that God is backing them and that they have risen from the ashes. They assert that those who thought they could kill or fool them have been proven wrong, because they’ve come back stronger and made the world take notice. Enemies who cursed them are now silenced as the speaker casts truth like a choir that cannot be silenced. They describe facing attempts to suppress them, with others hoping for their decline and for violence to prevail, but the light surrounding them does not flicker; the speaker tells the reaper that they have a deal, and the light and ray smash, scattering darkness. All lies ever told are now irrelevant in the face of their renewed power. The refrain centers on a resurrection rap fusion—blood, bath, grave break, resurrection—emphasizing that you can try to kill them, but they will always come back. An eternal flame cannot be stopped, and evil hesitates whenever their name is spoken. The speaker proclaims they will return even if buried six feet deep or deeper than the promises others keep. They are growing through concrete, undermining and rebuilding foundations, making corporations tremble with tremors of their perseverance and patience. They’ve waited in silence, sharpened their tongue, and now they are back, stronger than a thousand guns. They see through every wall built to keep them out and expose the fakery behind it all. They insist the bloodbath was never the end; it was merely another chapter in a book that continues to be written. They declare themselves the ghost witness, aligned with math and the mash, as darkness scatters and every lie told is rendered moot. The repeated refrain—blood, bath, break, resurrection rap—claims that no force can stop their return. They proclaim a wave-like momentum: light races, a powerful blast that cannot be contained. The speaker asserts that a “turtle flame” cannot be silenced by noise, and they pose existential questions—what is a coffin to a comet, what is a grave to a galaxy? They insist they have died many times, yet have not lost their grasp or resolve. They reference people counting on their silence and decay, but they have learned the light and built a better way. Each trigger pulled and every blade swing has not caused them to fade; instead, they remain, dancing on a light-like path, with a soul that never bends. They acknowledge past pain and the attempt to drag them down, but they persevere, declaring themselves eternal and capable of reversing the rap like a universal force. They embrace the idea that what is already light cannot be stopped, and they remain a witness to a power that, according to them, cannot be defeated while they endure. They end with the assertion that God’s all-seeing eye sustains what is already light.