I see what it is like on the streets of your city:

They’re bare. They’re spotless – but not in the least bit pretty.

Your buildings are 3-D billboards, merely empty shells

Promoting an ideology in which nobody wants to dwell.

At the Dear Leader’s palace I see some signs of life,

Merely the guards keeping the submissive away from any kind of strife.

Your factories endlessly mass-produce those artificial smiles

Because real emotion is against the law for miles and miles.

Kim Il Sung’s portrait looks down on me saying “It’ll all be okay!”

Though its true function is to keep the open-minded at bay.

Through the haze I can only see for a few hundred feet at most,

But if I publicly bring up this problem, I’m toast.

I see through your statues and banners, it’s all smoke and mirrors.

The hollowness of your “Communist Paradise” couldn’t be any clearer.