It's sweeping under the carpet
The dirt that goes out of control
It hangs it out in the public
There is no answer
The only good to feed
The fodders of internal stabbing
The washing cars and the polishers
The shining bonnets the shadows smile
It's sweeping under the carpet
The newspapers pretend
There is no hound to investigate
The impartiality never the word
The civets jump over the high fence
It's sweeping claws trying to evade arrest
On to the field the sweepers watch
“Don't come to me I never say”
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