arbore libertas, with fruits of life
grows in a loam of blood and strife
watered with fear, blooms of terror
feeding a home constituted of error
all times too cold, all times too hot
perpetual victim of the coup d'etat
beneath comfy shade, the thinkers think
of some ancient tome of a world at a brink
nourished by sap flavored saltpeter
sure of the future tasting so sweeter
blind to the souls lost underfoot
things they're content to turn into soot
watch the world burn in a blaze of inaction
fueled by logs from a cutting contraption
it's under this tree we're all learnt to sit
and savor this odor, demagogical ****
one thing we'll hear of which to be sure
this smell's required, life grows in manure
it sounds like a lie, then again, what's true?
the only concern in a world full of you
there's only a home fed by a tree
fit with a swing, a rope just for me