Echelons to molotovs

standing, strong and tall.
Outside hear their call.
Tear down the wall, upper echelon, blackest of them all.
Sold us into sorrow, you love to watch the weaker ones crawl don't pity our cause, for the laws you've disowned.
Pagan prophesy has come to be.
Thrown Molotovs mark the fall of a throne.
And dead philosophy, we're not to be owned.
Paid slaves heed to the masters voice, the scales offset without a choice.
Debts of the spirit.
No chance of your own conscience turning the tide.