A poem from The Anarchist, by Roland Michel Tremblay, translated by Sheila MacLeod.
Ever since I was born you’ve told me what I should do
with myself
I’ve never been free to take the slightest little
decision
And if I once stood up to tell you I wouldn’t do
something
Once just walked away to do something else
That something else soon became your Plan B
I went on doing whatever you wanted me to do
And you wonder why I hate authority
Why I don’t take kindly to criticism
Why I can’t stand people telling me what to do
It’s because you’ve planted these powerful authority
figures everywhere
At every level of my existence
Some sort of authority is fencing me in
Checking up on me, spying on what I do
And if I object, however feebly, an army descends on
me
An army of parents, teachers, supervisors, directors,
priests
Psychologists, policemen, soldiers, agents of all
sorts of outfits
What counts is order, conformity’s the thing, total
peace without compromise
Well, I’m telling you I’m not the one who has a
problem with authority
Too many people have too much authority over everyone
else in the world
Don’t be surprised when everything blows up in your
face
When someone suddenly pulls a gun and fires it among
you at random
You were asking for it and you’ll find it yet
