My life spent with meager currency

My face shown and shining in printed wealth.

It is obvious I move like sculptures

When it comes to anything me or you.

But though I've signed a contract of spirit and blood of my own free will

I've been built empires of gold,

I think it is a fair trade overall.

Though I'm dead inside, I'm still alive

And know that I'm still here even if I die.

Through my kingdom of plastic I inspire my subjects through submission

And rejection of natural purity.

They thank me later, I'm sure,

Through death, spiritual or physical

Or even both, it matters not.

I'm sure they think of me every day

Every time they learn their lesson.

Why should they be free? Why should they love? Why should they be?

Why be anything other than me?

Me and others like myself always think for the good of the business

Because the artificial doesn't happen overnight.

It is due to this and our lack of soul that we pleasure the banning of authenticity.

For that kind of idea doesn't fit in our world, our neverending school.

Fools as we are, we dominate you, so come, join us.

Please do appease we, the machine, and nevermind that manual button.