[Intro - Fuzz-drenched guitar, cabaret piano, walking upright bass] [Verse 1 - Theatrical sparse groove, walking upright bass, cabaret piano, swaggering male vocal] My carriage-time machine, a most peculiar hack, Landed in your future—and I can’t get back. I sought the “New World” reason was meant to grace, Instead I found a Kardashian in Cyrano’s place! Your liberty’s a brand, your justice up for lease, And the only common sense is the one on the police. You’ve more philosophers than Athens, on a screen, But their mighty discourse fits a meme so mean. I, who fought the idiots of church and of the crown, Find you’ve elected better clowns to run your town! [Pre-Chorus - Rising tension, syncopated horn hits, building rhythmic drive] Oh, let them eat cake? Non, let them post the lie! The best of all worlds? I must have told a joke awry. Your pursuit of happiness is just a shopping spree, Brought to you by sponsors on a cracked LCD. [Chorus - Full band swing-funk groove, crisp horn stabs, punchy bass and drums] I wrote “Écrasez l’infâme!”—Crush the vile thing! You gave it an app and let it ring. This isn’t liberty, it’s a premium farce, I need a drink. Is there a decent bar? …Of course. [Verse 2 - Restrained cabaret groove, walking bass, theatrical satirical delivery] I see you’ve kept my old foe, the pious hypocrite, But he’s traded his cassock for a podcast and a bit. He preaches not of scripture, but of markets and of fear, His holy trinity: Like, Share, and Subscribe here! You surveil yourselves for fun and call it “being known,” A panopticon you built right on your phone. You’ll fight for the right to say asinine stuff, But let a fact check cut in? That’s too rough. Candide’s Pangloss would feel at home, I fear, Insisting your algorithm makes a perfect sphere. [Pre-Chorus - Rising tension, syncopated horn hits, building rhythmic drive] Oh, let them eat cake? Non, let them post the lie! The best of all worlds? I must have told a joke awry. Your pursuit of happiness is just a shopping spree, Brought to you by sponsors on a cracked LCD. [Chorus - Full band swing-funk groove, crisp horn stabs, punchy bass and drums] I wrote “Écrasez l’infâme!”—Crush the vile thing! You gave it an app and let it ring. This isn’t liberty, it’s a premium farce, I need a drink. Is there a decent bar? …Of course. [Bridge - Dynamic contrasting texture, percussive piano, aggressive delivery] In my day a lie would travel by coach, they’d say, While truth was pulling on its boots to start the day. Now the lie is supersonic, truth bankrupt, out of style, And your garden? You don’t tend it—you just scroll awhile. A million Robespierres all screaming to be heard, But not a single one can define the word. They’d burn a book online to prove they’re pure and brave, Then order its sequel next-day shipping, to save. [Verse 3 - Driving cabaret rhythm, fuzz guitar accents, swaggering vocals] You claim enlightenment, a digital new age, But the main thing you’ve lit is your rage. You automated prejudice with code and with a bot, The Lisbon Earthquake’s chaos—but you forgot The part where God was questioned. Now you just accept The tremor and the flood, as long as they’re well-kept In trends. I’d write a dictionary, but the meanings shift, On whoever’s yelling loudest, whoever brings the gift. My satire’s met its match—your reality’s a jest, It’s hard to parody what’s already manifest. [Pre-Chorus - Peak building dynamic, punchy horn stabs, driving beat] Oh, let them eat cake? Let them post the lie! The worst of all worlds, and nobody asks why! Your pursuit of happiness is a slot machine’s spin, You never really lose, but you never, ever win. [Chorus - Maximum intensity swing-funk, full band explosion, soaring vocal] I wrote “Écrasez l’infâme!”—a noble cry, You micro-transactioned it and watched profits fly. This isn’t liberty, it’s a franchise cartoon, I’m heading back to France. I’ll see you soon. [Outro - Swinging cabaret groove resolution, theatrical delivery, clean piano finish] My time machine awaits. I leave you to your… bliss. A society of free-thinkers who only think of this: The right filter for breakfast, the right take for their tribe. Your revolution wasn’t televised… it was subscribed. Adieu, mes amis. Cultivate your garden, if you can. Or at least, recall what the hell it’s for. Pardon.
