The city of old made piles of the skulls

Of the enemies slain in the wars of the day.

The city of old spun lies into gold

Embossed with the crown to spend around town.

They locked up the poor or kicked in the door

To seize for the king some valuable thing.

But not my city, not my city. 

Not where I come from.

No, not my city. not my city.

Not where I call home.

The old king’s vizier had thousands of ears,

The better to choose which crimes to pursue.

A careful exchange was secretly arranged:

Some hang by the gate, others simply went away.

The lesson was clear: there’s no need to fear

As long as you heed the royal decrees.

 But not my city…

Under occupation: the soldiers were stationed

At dozens of garrisons to protect the citizens

From lower class workers: drunk and breeding disturbers

Of peace, who provide the labor needed by hirers

With weapons of war they prod and coerce

And punish defiance, ensuring compliance.

But not my city…

The doctors were well paid, but the poor were afraid

To seek medical aid until it was too late,

Unless companies offered to pay for the doctors

To make sure production could cover the losses.

For those in poverty a medical emergency

Could eat through a decade of savings and net pay.

But not my city…

The king's lazy aides could ride gravy trains

As long as the merchants had gold to afford them.

The market was free for plunder and greed.

The king paid no mind to the lone subject’s rights

Or the way gold amassed in a couple men’s hands,

More than could be spent in one life or ten.

But not my city…

When the old king defeated the forces of evil

He quietly hired the enemies' advisors

To add their seasoned cruelness to his policy toolkit

And maintain the balance and fences around that

Keep the way that things are from progress or harm

And the old city convinced that they were God's instrument

But not my city…