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.