Everybody knows..

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded,

But hey, let's roll anyway, fingers crossed.

The war? Oh, it's over, my friend,

The good guys? Well, they lost, no surprise.

And the fight? Fixed, like a rigged casino,

Where the poor stay poor, and the rich? Oh, they thrive.

That's how it goes, my dear citizens,

Welcome to the grand illusion.

The boat? Leaking, my fellow passengers,

The captain? Oh, he lied, but who's counting?

We all share this broken feeling,

As if our fathers and dogs just dropped dead.

Now, talk to your pockets, folks,

Because that's where the answers lie—right next to the lint.

And everyone wants a box of chocolates,

And perhaps a long-stemmed rose to soften the blow.

Ah, and you, my love, discreet and faithful,

Give or take a night or two of monetary mischief.

But there were so many people you had to meet,

All those bureaucrats, their pockets lined with secrets.

And without your clothes, you stood exposed,

Just like our financial system—naked and vulnerable.

Everybody knows, everybody knows,

The game is rigged, the cards marked.

Everybody knows, everybody knows,

That's how it goes—fiat money magic.

Now or never, my fellow debtors,

It's me or you, and the stakes are high.

Live forever? Well, not quite,

But when you've done a line or two of quantitative easing,

The deal turns rotten, like an old banana.

Old Black Joe still pickin' cotton,

While we tie ribbons and bows around our economic woes.

The plague? Oh, it's coming, my friends,

Fast and furious, like a Black Friday sale.

The naked man and woman? Mere artifacts,

Shining relics of a past we've forgotten.

The scene? Dead. But wait, there's more:

A meter on your bed, ticking away,

Revealing what everybody knows—the inflationary truth.

And you, troublemaker, battle-scarred survivor,

From the bloody cross of Wall Street to Malibu's beachfront.

Our system? Falling apart, like a poorly stitched suit,

Take one last look at this Sacred Heart—

Before it blows, leaving us with empty pockets.

Everybody knows, everybody knows,

That's how it goes—paper money ballet.

Oh, everybody knows, everybody knows,

Our financial symphony, out of tune.

(Leonard Cohen on Fiat.)

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