Marching Tyrants, to the top of the hill,
Not knowing we are all the same until,
They reach the top and fall a bitter ill,
We feel so good, tall, and proud with lofty thoughts we say out loud,
Beneath my heavy foot, cries arise, to heaven-sent,
They all look the same, no particular resemblance to myself.
Once I was one of them, then I told myself I was better than them all,
Then the fall, oh my gosh, it is me I trample,
Oh Mother Earth, what I left is an ample waste.