The Last Bookworm
Expelled from paradise, directed down to hell
Whose court is talking about justice here?
Yours are the apples, and your garden blooms so well
Pick any fruit, and treat the snake, my dear
The cruel punishment will never put them right,
Your congregation of the disingenuous slaves
The triumph of the law will not be glorified
By their rants expanded through the airwaves
If it's the other way around, what about
The high intention of a servant to command
Slaves become masters, so you see their snouts
Stick everywhere, your privacy is scanned
Sisyphus pushes up again his cobblestone
Choirs sing the psalms into the painted sky
Whilst in his tiny room the last bookworm
Hears the voices of those who refused to die.
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