With mischief on my mind,
I want to switch the machines off
And leave their works behind.
Send their operators off to tend
The land that they once raped,
And sit among the floral fields
That nature, not us, shaped.
I have no patience left to wait
For 'them' to make this change,
When so many still say "ooh, no"
And hide inside their cage.
And so I walk on, wrench in hand
And sing towards the sky,
Taking action as it comes,
An (anti)social butterfly.
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