LYRICS

[Intro | style: Rap (dark satirical docu-trap) | voice: male-coded | cadence/SPM: 170–190]
(News-bedle, shortwave hiss)
“¡Buenas noches!” cadena on the telly, volume up, city down,
“Soy Nicolás Maduro Moros…” echo in the palace crown.
I kiss the mic like it’s a medal, make the cameras swear to me,
Patria, revolución, soberanía—say it slow, then stare at me.
[Verse 1 | cadence/SPM: 200–215]
I came from bus routes, ahora I run the route of the nation,
Chávez left the throne, I read the script like revelation.
2013, tight count, I’m “elected,” I’m the cure,
State TV says “peace,” but the streets feel less secure.
I sell “order” like medicine, dosis de miedo on the side,
If the pot starts banging, I turn the broadcast louder—hide.
Cadena after cadena, I talk until the night turns gray,
My voice becomes the law, my suit becomes the flag you pay.
Ballot boxes, soldier boots, bureaucratic holy trinity,
Stamp the papers, move the cameras, manufacture infinity.
I call it “security,” you call it dread in every home,
But I’m the palace with a heartbeat, I’m the microphone.
And if you doubt, I name you “enemy,” simple, clean, official,
A signature, a uniform, a file—now it’s “judicial.”
[Pre-Chorus | cadence/SPM: 185–200]
Listen—hear the applause? (No—) that’s pots in the dark,
I say “prosperidad,” shelves look like a missing-mark.
I smile for the feed, but my eyes don’t blink, no,
I’m praying to my loyal cameras: “Don’t you glitch—no.”
[Chorus | cadence/SPM: 165–175 | chantable, clipped on snares]
I said “I am the state”—then the signal cut, cut,
I said “patria o nada”—then I tripped, what, what.
Now my crown is a clown wig, my “power” lookin’ frail—
Highest note on “fail”: I failed, I failed, I failed.
(Tag: mic-drop tone) “Cadena… canceled.”
[Verse 2 | cadence/SPM: 205–220]
2014, streets on fire with chants I can’t control,
So I rename the crackdown “peace”—pero it takes a toll.
2017, I rewrite the room: “Constituyente,” brand-new stage,
I call it “sovereignty,” they call it locked-in cage.
2018, more ballots, more billboards, same tired show,
I’m posing like a strongman while the pipelines whisper “no.”
I’m on TV talking “economic war,” I blame a distant hand,
Mientras the lines wrap blocks around my “richest” land.
“¡Vamos bien!” I say, then my teleprompter freezes mid-decree,
The glitch is like a mirror and it laughs back at me.
I talk in slogans, crowd repeats, my spell is copy-paste,
But every “revolución” tastes like rust, like waste.
I count my minutes, troops, and suits—petty empire math,
Foreshadow in my pockets: cold cuffs, a future path.
I tell myself “I saved them,” that’s the story I recite,
But the sirens write footnotes in the margins of the night.
[Pre-Chorus 2 | cadence/SPM: 180–195]
I hear “libertad” like thunder under every “lealtad,”
So I grip the mic tighter—my hands start looking bad.
I whisper to the palace: “Hold the door, hold the frame,”
But history loves a punchline, and it’s spelling out my name.
[Chorus | cadence/SPM: 165–175]
I said “I am the state”—then the signal cut, cut,
I said “patria o nada”—then I tripped, what, what.
Now my crown is a clown wig, my “power” lookin’ frail—
Highest note on “fail”: I failed, I failed, I failed.
(Tag) “Cadena… canceled.”
[Bridge | cadence/SPM: 170–185 | slower vowels, arrest/court imagery]
Breaking-news textures, helicopters drawing circles in the smog,
I’m backstage bargaining with my own reflection in the fog.
I practice my “innocente,” I rehearse my “enemy” blame,
But the door swings wide—flashbulbs—every lens knows my frame.
A voice like a headline: Trump in the room, red tie, straight face,
He says, “You’re fired,” like it’s TV, and I hate the taste.
Handcuffs click—two cold syllables—clink, clink, no debate,
My “sovereignty” fits in a pocket with a boarding-gate.
I try to yell “¡Patria!”—my throat gets cut by air,
Even my loyal cameras pan away like they don’t care.
[Final Chorus / Outro | cadence/SPM: 160–175 | biggest hook, comedic collapse]
I said “I am the state”—then the signal cut, cut,
I said “patria o nada”—now it’s “nada,” what, what.
Now my crown is a clown wig, my “power” lookin’ frail—
Highest note on “fail”: I failed, I failed, I failed.
(Tag, whispered, bitter) “Order… out of order.”
(News-bedle fades) “This has been a cadena.” Static. End.