The Flight - Destrage

Our leader knows the best for us

Takes us through the currents

He lifts high up who follows

Our leader goes to the back line

He knows best that we all guide

Separated, cohesive and aligned

Just one of many

Proceed in struggle

And pass the line

To the front raw

All take turns

Just to realize

We are one with the flock

We are a flight of migrant swallows

We move fast to leave behind

The cold and dull hierarchic boredom

Our system calls for no central control

Striding in two lines we lift our weights

To flirt with a prize we smell from miles and miles away

We all gaze forward to the same reward

Each one calls a different name

As the game is getting lame

We raise the stakes

Spice up the fucking game

Those who stay at the back crave to make their way to the front

Once they arrive there, will they exèrt the effort for long?

Will the group keep me on the trail

Now that my beliefs have gone astray?