Soil (wiersz klasyka)

A flowers's mother
A soldier's father
The farmer's wife
The strat and end of life,
The sword can't cut it,
Man can't kill it,
Millions pounding on your face,
You take the pain
And present no fight,
You give them flowers,
Fruits, and drugs,
They give you trash, oli, and shit
We would rather
Pray to something
We can't see or touch,
than you, our God.