To an Empty Space

How the primitive gain power I don’t have a clue They’ve no time to smell a flower Or to plant a new They’re spiritually greedy And inevitably sad Not at all like me, indeedy I’m an easy-going lad I’ve no time to crave for power Take this country, anyone Come invade my garden flower Tramp it in the morning sun Here’s my ID and insurance You can burn it in one pile With myself, at such occurrence Smell my ashes with a smile You consider me a nation You’re a primitive moron Pray about my fake salvation Watch me thriving on your scorn.