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