Manufactured Consent
The priest stands tall, commanding voice
Echoes through the village, folks rejoice Gather round, the square, the pier Harbor made of stone, so severe
Apocalyptic event, they are told The end is near; hearts grow cold But as they wait, the hours’ pass No destruction comes, no fiery blast
Only a manufactured consent By those in power, so evident The masses led astray By authority and media’s sway
But still, the villagers stand Eager for the command In times of fear and uncertainty They find solace in conformity
