The Man knows it all, or so I've been told.
His hand holds everything, the whole world is rolled
Into a ball that he holds in his palm,
And squeezes it just to give you a new qualm.
The Man’s an oppressor, or so you say.
It’s his fault that nothing can just go your way.
But you haven’t tried, you just make this claim
That The Man is the man that we all should blame.
The Man is not God, that much I know.
He's blind as a bat and has nothing to show.
For, when he opens up his hands,
He's holding not a grain of sand.
But The Man is not here, and I don't think he's real.
You speak of him always, but he’s never revealed.
I look, and I look, but no matter what I do,
I can't find The Man, and all I see is you.