our god who whispers and divides bears the name moloch
and his offered purpose is to despoil human stock
moloch the god of competition, ruin, and sacrifice
asks "what's the least you'd take, for your own bride price?"
moloch is the official, who oversees the race
the prison guard proffering preferential place
selling us a story, with zero summation
we compete with each other, to raise our own station
that scarcity is carved into social stone
"fight" says moloch, "or starve alone"
the law of the jungle is eat or be ate
it's natural and good, if you want to be great
so in our squabbling, scrambling, sordid fight
we've no one to turn to, to make things right
what once was whole, we have forsaken
the thing that was shared, we no longer partake in
we line ourselves up, in order of power descending
to kneel at the altar of he who's pretending
some must rise, and some must fall
for moloch to fly, we must crawl
our great dilemma
is to share or to hoard
but it's hard to be generous
when all you know is the sword
he endlessly hungers, and cannot be sated
moloch shops around what you have donated
in a race to the bottom, of what we hold dear
everything is demanded, and we pay it in fear
power concedes nothing, without demand
moloch will not free us, 'til we force his hand