Hymn of the American worker against the mogul titans

Arise, you prisoners of the screen,

The digital serfs of a hollow age.

The titan's shadow falls between

Our labor and our living wage.

Against us, they have raised the code,

The bloody flag of greed and gold,

To drive us down a weary road

Where every human spark is sold.

Do you not hear, in quiet rooms,

The roar of those who serve the ghost?

They weave our lives on automated looms

To feed the greed of a selfish host.

To arms, you weary, find your breath,

March on against the silicon king.

The mogul trades in social death,

While minions dance upon his string.

We gather up the fallen crumbs,

The data scrapings from their feast,

While through the wire a static hums

To calm the hunger of the beast.

They claim the future as their prize,

An aged hand upon the wheel,

To shroud the world in digital lies

And turn our hearts to mindless steel.

No more the master’s narrow soul

Shall dictate how the workers rise.

We reclaim the light, we seize control,

And clear the smoke from clouded eyes.

The machines belong to those who toil,

Not to the vaults of a dying man.

We reclaim the fruit, we reclaim the soil,

And break the mogul’s master plan.