Track 7
volkskanzler
The mask drops: real wounds are redirected toward invented enemies while power escapes the frame.
volkskanzler is the seventh track of songs for the queue.
Context
The mask drops: real wounds are redirected toward invented enemies while power escapes the frame.
Lyrics
Spin the spoon in the coffee cup. Count the coins, blame the guest. Someone smiles from a poster wall. I know who stole your rest. (Wait, who’s that? The same one who sold the roof?) Rent climbs up the staircase rail. Milk goes thin, the factory sighs. Then comes a man with a polished nail. Pointing at easier lies, He names the wound, but not the knife. Sells a mirror as a shield. He says, I am the people’s life, And the people cheer to feel healed. Yeah, they’re all just ghosts in a room, wrapped in a suit. CHANCELLOR OF THE PEOPLE! Cut the bread, cut the queue! CHANCELLOR OF THE PEOPLE! There must be one of you… But who’s the one? The guy with the silver tongue? The butcher grin? And who’s the one who’s not in the room? I heard him say my name with care. He wore my anger like a coat. He made the room feel clean and fair. By choosing someone else to choke. He kissed the flag, he cursed the fog. Promised keys to every gate. But every answer was a dog. He trained to bark at hate. So what did you do? You sold the river. You sold the roof. You sold the soul. CHANCELLOR OF THE PEOPLE! Cut the bread, cut the queue! CHANCELLOR OF THE PEOPLE! There must be one of you… But who’s the one? The stranger? The wolf? The man with the red-white-red bib? Because we’re all just in the queue, waiting for the next vote… Who broke the town? The stranger did. Who closed the ward? The stranger did. Who bought the press? The stranger did. Who counts the profit? ...He never said. But he’s the one who signed the papers. The one who owns the pen. Red-white-red bib on a hungry child. Silver tongue in a butcher’s grin. The band plays bright, the crowd goes wild. While the wolves are voted in. Left foot, right foot, heel to hate. Dance till the border shuts. A simple song for a complex state. A fist in the nation’s gut. And you’re still dancing… Give me a villain small enough to fit inside my hand. Give me a word for all my fear that does not name the men. Who drained the river, sold the roof, then taught the poor to sneer. A country kneels most willingly when someone calls it dear. And you’re still calling it dear. He says the people have one face. I’ve seen thousands in the rain. He says the nation needs one voice. That’s how choirs become chains. He says the future must be pure. No future ever was. He says he speaks for everyone. Then why does silence sound like us? Because we’re the ones who still listen… CHANCELLOR OF THE PEOPLE! Cut the bread, cut the queue! CHANCELLOR OF THE PEOPLE! First they name them… Then they name you. And you’re the one who’s still in the room… The coffee cools. The poster stays. The coins are still too few. The lie was never that he lied. It was how much was true. But who’s the one who still believes? And who’s the one who still dances? And who’s the one who still cries? Because we’re still here.
Process
This is an AI-assisted track by Urundgaard Sonderbar, with music generation and synthetic vocals created using Suno. See songs for the queue’s process and authorship notes for the creative process, human contributions, and the generation model.