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.