They say,
The truth is this
The truth is that
The truth is a lie
The actual fact is,

My people were never invited to this place,
We were hired, to replace,
Loose screws on machines that weren't up to scratch
The hired help,
A simple solution with invisible strings attached,
But we came anyway,
With hopes in our hearts and the sun on our backs,
They opened up the gates and we came flooding in on planes and ships,
They never understood our mother tongue and so we sealed our lips,
And silent we are still

We put on the boots with the steel tips,
And we walk, and we walk and we walk and we work,
In hopes the next generation can live for something better,
Wrapping our dreams in fluorescent vests only to be more invisible than ever,
Gotta make it, gotta make it, can't miss the next shift
Traded our way of life just for a quick, buck,
Paycheque to paycheque that's how we live it up,
Wake up just to regret waking up,

But I gotta clock in,
And let the day begin,
Put the bag on the conveyor guide the mouth through the sealer,
Put the bag on the conveyor guide the mouth through the sealer,
I didn’t get paid for the extra hours worked last week,
Put yourself on the conveyor guide your mouth through the sealer,
The temp worker doesn’t get a say I guess,
I put myself on the conveyor now my mouth is through the sealer.
To become another product for the slave traders and dealers,
Coz I have seen this routine too many times before,
But it’s been swept under pallets of the factory floors,
We stack and store and we stack and store,
Hopefully we don’t get stacked and stored,
But when the boss asks, “Overtime?”
And we reply, “Sure”

We fill our lungs with tobacco smoke,
And breath out pointless conversations,
“How was your weekend?”
“Got pretty waaaasted”
The type of questions on regular rotation,
About females,
About sports,
About work,
About females,
There’s always that one guy who spins the best fairy tales,
He might talk alotta shit but that’s entertainment for the day,
Because work is the same,
The same levers pulled,
The same machines working,
The same notches turned,
The same faces yawning,

The old timers try and school us during the break,
He sat there with a filter between his lips,
Spoke of disdain towards his job,
And with cigarette stained fingertips,
Pointed out the worst about people with power,
“It’s bad enough that you get paid shit, but they treat you like shit too”
He says that’s how capitalism works,
But we have families to support, our choices are limited,
Young man! Tone down your talk about equality,
You might get called a communist or a hippy, as if it were a bad thing,

The rasp in his voice spoke his truth,
I could see regret welling up in the corners of his eyes,
His longing for his Pacific trapped in his gaze,
Almost becoming a reflection of mine,
Were we destined to share the same ache in our spines,
The same blistered skin on our knuckles,
Is this the only pathway to provide?

I guess it’s all part of the,
The production line
The production line
The production, lie

Lastman So'oula