There was a mime named Mima
and if you’ve passed the fury road
you’ve surely seen her.
She builds walls of stale blue air
with borrowed gloves of the former mayor.
The crowds, they gather in the night
pushing Mima out of sight,
behind her barricade of stale blue air.
Breathe, Mima, breathe deep
you’ve got all your silence to keep.
The chimneys boom, thick grey smoke is
unleashed in a second;
inhale and please don't lose a minute to talk,
you know, keep up the front!
A sound turns the impoverished crowd
into a ravenous mob. So be careful. Remember?
Nom-nom-nom the mayor eaten to bits
because he had too many secrets to keep.
Factories, chimneys and smog,
have nothing to talk.
That's the job of an indispensable cog
to turn and produce the heavenly smog.
What can I say to appease the determined old mass
in order to save my little odd life?
I'll paint my face and put on the gloves,
and stay hidden behind an invisible fence unless
the workers keep building their stress.
One day you could also be mayor,
continue your silent production of choice and don’t forget in the end to pull the cord of the snare.