Micromegas

Poor man, poor human being
Was it your plan to always beating?
Beating the world, beating your soul?
Fleeing in whirled, after you stole
Every present that was here for
Every beings not only for
Your stupid pushy rotten head
That inspired me this metaphor?
Is your presence unpleasant or
Is there reason to start a war?
You'll understand in your deathbed
You ain't got gun in hand anymore
It's too late now, you realise
You don't know how idealize
Cos' you lived blind and hypnotized
Too late now to be harmonized, Huh
Poor man, poor human being
Was it your plan to reap everything?
Reaping the ground, reaping the earth,
Only for pounds, and euros and dollars?
Money and gold you want it more
Money and gold got no weight nor value when you're dead
No ain't got no longer here anymore
(No ain't got no longer here anymore)
Is your presence unpleasant or
Is there reason to start a war?
You'll understand in your deathbed
You ain't got gun in hand anymore
Too late now, don't even realise
How much you are not civilized
Cos' your world is materialized
Too late now, don't be agonized
You think you can decide
But you don't listen to the Nature
Don't watching what is beside
You, do not take care, you torture
Poor man, poor human being
Was it your plan to make suffering
All your brothers, sisters and cousins?
I wonder, if " family " you know what it means
You believe you are tall,
Think you are able to conquer
But actually you're small,
Front off the powerness univers
Obviously I guess you're not available
To understand my verses
But I throw my cards on the table,
So do you keep yours close either?
Brutalized are your roots
You neutralize and persecute
You got blood on your boots
It's usual for you to shoot!
Poor man, poor human being
Was it your plan at the beginning
To renounce you Father
And also raping your Mother?
You believe that you can teach
But you guy got so much to learn
There's no day you don't need each
Other, not sure this what you earn
You believe you know everything
But your knowledge is a book with mothafucking white pages,
Your mind is full of outrages
No matter, when you're all alone in your coffin at the ending
Brutalized are your roots
You neutralize and persecute
You got blood on yours boots
It's usual for you to shoot