(Intro)
I pack one passport, two burner phones,
a blazer that whispers “reform” while my eyes scream “you’re lying,”
boarding group zero-sum, jet fuel rosary,
same sky, same speech, new lanyard hanging like a soft little noose of consent,
and the gate agent smiles “enjoy your conference”
like I’m going somewhere new
instead of circling the same ten hotels where the world
pretends to fix itself on a panel.

(Chorus)
Same sky, same lies, new badge, old crime,
I’m a mileage-earning witness to the slow-motion decline,
pack light, expect less, check your hope with the rest,
these are cathedrals of almost dressed up as progress,
same glass, same stage, same “historic” press release,
we export the chaos and import the peace.

(Verse 1)
Touchdown D.C., marble floors and navy suits,
welcome to “The Global Loan-Shark Cotillion Where Nations Pretend They Have Options While Signing Away Their Futures to Men in Navy Suits Who Smile Like They Invented Debt Itself”
a.k.a. the IMF and World Bank Spring Meetings, if you read the badge,
I pack spreadsheets and euphemisms, “fiscal space,” “structural reform,”
watch ministers sign with shaking hands and call it partnership,
the interest compounding in the silence between words,
I leave with a glossy PDF and the echo of another budget snapping in half
in a language polite enough to pass for help.

(Verse 2)
Next flight, motorcades blooming like armored flowers on the tarmac,
welcome to “The Executive Committee of Earth’s Shareholders”
otherwise branded the G20 Leaders’ Summit on your push alerts,
I pack “coordination,” “stability,” “rules-based order” in my carry-on smirk,
inside they rehearse concern for the global South
while insisting nothing essential in the North can ever change,
I leave with a ten-page communiqué that welcomes everything and commits to nothing,
just enough verbal sugar to keep the markets on the drip a little longer.

(Verse 3)
Private jet hop to a lakeside democracy with perfect drone shots,
welcome to “The Sleepover for Declining Empires Who Still Think They’re the Main Characters of Global History Even Though Half the Plot Has Moved On Without Telling Them”
sold to the public as the G7 Summit,
I pack my best earnest nod and a map from 1995,
they pose on piers like aging boy bands on a reunion tour,
I leave with sanctions, hashtags,
and the smell of relevance burning off in real time.

Then Geneva, second act, same hangover,
welcome to “The Haunted House of Neoliberalism Where Trade Ministers Keep Trying to Resurrect a System That Died Somewhere Around 2008 But Nobody Has the Heart or the Spine to Tell Them the Ghost Is Out of the Machine”
politely titled the WTO Ministerial Conference,
I pack a flashlight and a tired belief in “rules-based trade,”
Doha rattles the pipes, dead rounds pacing like restless spirits,
I leave with “further consultations,”
the diplomatic version of “we should talk”
spoken by people who absolutely will not.

(Chorus)
Same sky, same lies, new badge, old crime,
we sermonize the future while we’re looting it in real time,
pack light, expect less, check your hope with the rest,
these are world-sized mirrors where we curate the mess,
same lines, same spin, same “new era” spin,
you can change the venue, but the script stays in.

(Verse 4)
New York in September, sirens and snipers and diplomatic plates,
welcome to “The Global Open Mic Night for Heads of State Where Everyone Gets Two Minutes to Serve Delusion, Projection, Grievance, Fantasy, Aspirational Realness, and Zero Deliverables”
also known as the United Nations General Assembly,
I pack earplugs and caffeine, sit in the green-marble church of performance,
watch leaders drag their domestic mess onstage in sequined moral language,
I leave with speeches heavy enough to stop a bullet
and not one veto undone in the chamber that actually bites.

Then climate city, desert or delta or drowning shore,
welcome to “The Annual Global Gaslighting Gala Where Leaders Fly First-Class to Announce How Seriously They’re Taking Climate Change While Making Sure Nothing Binding Survives the Final Draft Because Fossil Lobbyists Already Wrote the Ending”
sold as the UNFCCC Climate COP,
I pack a reusable cup, three IPCC charts, one stupid shard of hope,
they swap “phase-out” for “transition away” while the planet cooks on mute,
I leave with a “historic deal” whose enforcement mechanism is vibes and spreadsheets,
and a migraine that smells like jet fuel and melted ice.

(Chorus)
Same sky, same lies, new badge, old crime,
I’m jet-lagged clergy in the church of decline,
pack light, expect less, check your hope with the rest,
these are runways for Not Quite dressed up as success,
same glass, same stage, same “new dawn” spin,
the house is on fire and we’re networking within.

(Outro)
Arrivals hall, fluorescent purgatory, suitcase full of branded regret,
the officer asks, “Anything to declare?” and my throat tightens,
I want to list them all, one by one,
every summit, every stage, every consecrated almost.