Man saw a king in his mirror, God only saw a jester. The future is bleak when complacence dictates everybody to board the Downhill Vessel to Perdition.
We are converting the third rock from the sun on an ultimately barren rock.
And the Jester dances believing he is a king...

I hear the moans of pain of old Winter
been pushed by a so youthful Spring
that don’t thing to ever becoming older
and been pushed by a Summer thing,
living and dying in a flurry of flowers
with colorful butterflies and busy bees,
life never teaches anyone how to die
not even teach you how to live it will.

Cracking ice like frozen wrinkles
in the old face of Mother Earth I see,
we wander disrespectful on her bosom
there’s not Home to send old mother in
so we can soothe our guilty of no caring
or make scarce all our meek visits,
when seeing the crumbling loved body
we figuring that last forever it should be.

When all of us are but gone we heard said
that Mother Earth will recover, they think,
from a barren third rock from the sun into a
Utopian Eden where once man was a king,
with rivers of molten gold praising the gods
that make possible a rain of diamonds here,
where rocks melt in summer under the sun
and the excruciating cold of winter just kill.

Behold! You are looking at a dead planet,
where once, men thought they were kings.