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Wasting the marvels in a marvellous waste

Where beauty‘s nailed by fangs of haste

Oh, such a sickness, on a perfect sick globe

And the man, nesting like a forlorn telescope

The man whose health is a tool of the trade

The man who’s just bones on a grate

Entrapped souls on this bereaved Earth

Candidates of eternity, what a foolish herd

Harming the health by healthy harm

The wheels of decay propelled by devil’s arm

Oh, such a sickness, we’re perfectly sick

Deceiving wits by a plotted gimmick

The man who’s offered a soluble wonder

And said, you need this need, no need to ponder

Yes, this is the man who dwells in grief

Wedding the death, with no hope to reprieve

None’s that fit to dare refuse our remedy

which makes you undying, what a vicious comedy

We’ve built our real world on a nasty lie

What’s already deceased indeed needn’t die