In the land where propaganda thrives,
They pay with bream to keep it alive.
A fishy currency, a curious trade,
For words that twist, and truths that fade.
In Ebenets, the days drag slow,
A sleepy town where nothing grows.
The streets are quiet, the air is still,
A place where time has lost its will.
One wonders, as the nights grow long,
Is there a sewer, where waste belongs?
Or does it linger, beneath the ground,
In Ebenets, where silence sounds?
Oh, life is dull in this modest place,
Where bream and boredom interlace.
A town of questions, a life of wait,
In Ebenets, where time stagnates.