Don’t think I don’t know what you’re playing at.

Is my face not Aryan enough? Am I not cheerful enough
when you molest the original meaning of the swastika
and shove it down my throat in a cocktail of racist nationalism?
I’m not buying the sugar-coated cover of your tyranny.
I know what you’re playing at.

Am I too bourgeois? Do I not work hard enough to support your proletarian utopia and your worker’s paradise and your five-year plan?
I’m not cheering for the robotic pageantry of your autocracy.
I know what you’re playing at.

Do I do too much to express myself? Did I say something
to result in people thinking thoughts different from
those that you want them to think?
I’m just not that interested in reading little red books.
I know what you’re playing at.

Did you think propaganda would work? Did you seriously believe an iron fist would force us all into cheerful submission?
We’re not hallucinating images of you caring about us anymore .
We know what you’re playing at.

Don’t you dare think otherwise.