Thought Police!

(Progressive/Psych Rock with Post-Punk elements – polished, hook-driven version) (Intro – distorted guitar, mechanical drums, static whispers) Verse 1 The telescreen behind me mutters low, Steel dreams and slogans in a three-year glow. Every breath I take, if louder than a sigh, The metal plate will catch it, mark me when I lie. Inside their frame of vision, I’m a picture on the wall— Museum of the broken, standing fragile, standing tall. I don’t know the signal, I don’t know the sign, Just chasing speculation in the dark inside my mind. Pre-Chorus They could be there… always… Tapping into my secret wire. Habit turned to instinct now, And every move is under fire. Chorus (bigger, sharper, more radio-ready) Ooooh, Thought Police! In Minitrue’s white, hungry spire! W*r is Peace—the mantra set on fire! And I’m here in my cubicle, my own funeral pyre! Verse 2 London’s collapsing, leaning century bones, Cardboard in the windows, wind rattling through the stones. Willow roots in ashes on the b**b-scarred blocks, A childhood ghost returns in shattered shards and shocks. Just fading panels, memories washed downstream, A past erased so thoroughly it barely feels like dream. And on the skyline rising, cold and serpentine, Those concrete towers, three hundred meters high, divine. Pre-Chorus And all the ministries… Minipax, Miniluv… Steel mazes birthed from secrets never told. But Miniluv’s the chamber where the terror lives— No windows… just a future carved in cold. Chorus (heavier, dragging, doom-laden) Ooooh, Thought Police! In Minitrue’s white, hungry spire! Freedom is Slavery—the broken, bleeding lyre! And I’m here with my secret… with my spark, my quiet fire! Bridge (atmospheric, footsteps, clinks, whispers) I turn too sharply—wear a calm, rehearsed grin. In the kitchen waits the bread, the acid liquor, thin. Victory Gin—its copper sting, a chemical embrace, One swallow and the world ignites, then blurs to empty space. My skin is b*****g, tears… a sudden, searing breeze— A Victory Cigarette spills embers on the floor like pleas. Instrumental Solo (Dissonant sax wails over a pulsing bass and haunted keys.) Verse 3 (intimate, conspiratorial whisper) In the alcove, out of reach from the glassy, watching eye, A red-bound book is waiting—danger I can’t deny. Creamy pages yellowed from forgotten, stolen years— A treasonous confession trembling through my fears. The nib dips into ink, my heartbeat locked and sore— To mark the paper is the crime, the soul’s unbolted door. “April fourth… nineteen eighty-four…” The first line trembling—then a thousand more. Final Chorus (deconstructed, fading, dissolving) Oooh… Thought… Police… In Minitrue… the white… tall spire… Ignorance is Strength… the world’s caught in the mire… And I’m… here… writing… in my… fire… (Outro – telescreen static, distorted bass, pen dropping… silence.)