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.
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