They told us there’s no border, just a globe we all explore…

They told us there’s no border, just a globe we all explore,
But the Antarctic Treaty is the one thing all nations sign for.
Wars everywhere, but somehow they all agree,
“No one goes past this line, keep the people off the sea.”
Why the lock and key? Why the truth so small?
What’s hiding past that ice wall standing fifty stories tall?
A frozen ring around us, like a barrier to the skies,
Yet they tell us it’s just weather — just another pack of lies.

Look at the UN logo, tell me what do you see?
Not a globe, not a sphere — it’s a flat projection, perfectly.
North Pole centre, continents spread wide,
Looks more like a table map they’re trying to hide.
Spin it, flip it, frame it — the truth still snaps,
Even their crest matches all the “crazy people’s maps.”

Then Admiral Byrd said it live on TV,
“More land beyond the poles,” but they scrubbed it clean.
Said resources limitless, untouched and pure,
Next year they closed it off — “yeah mate, that’s for sure.”
Operation Highjump, what were they trying to find?
What did Byrd really see that made them lose their mind?

Stand on Lake Michigan, perfect calm, no sway,
See Chicago’s skyline from sixty miles away.
They said “mirage,” “refraction,” “just a trick of light,”
But the city stands solid — day or night.
No curve, no arc, no bending of the sightline,
Just a straight shot view — simple, clean, and fine.

They tell us water sticks to a ball spinning fast,
One thousand miles per hour — yet it clings like it’s cast.
But pour it in your kitchen, see how water behaves,
Flat, level, perfect — nature’s always been brave.
No wrap, no bow, no magical force,
Just level surface — that’s water’s course.

The “official numbers” stay the same every year,
No matter where we stand, or how high we steer.
Eight inches per mile squared — yet somehow it bends?
But nothing ever changes, curve never descends.
Planes don’t adjust, pilots fly straight lines,
Yet they say we arc smoothly through space and time.

Maybe the world ain’t the world they sold,
Maybe the truth’s been tucked and rolled.
Edges of the Earth where the questions call —
Ice wall high, and a globe that falls.
Ask what Byrd saw, look at UN’s floor,
Funny how the map looks flat once more.
From Chicago’s lights to the level tide —
Maybe the truth ain’t curved, it’s wide.