Return to Earth

When vituperating ten thousand upon Earth
when cursed hundred thousand griefs' birth
when detesting all ill rot
we must go cemeteries' dearth
to piss in the pot 

the high lords of the neighbourhood are all moustachioed 
and farmers of the crown like them have their washing machines 
the ancient mayors have all the Belle Vache stored 
and green youths hang around killing time by all means

there are both those of richness and those of work
in short all humanity on the surface of Earth 
it suffices for to find 
grief's birth
rot 
don't speak at all
cemeteries' dearth
they are fine there 
in need
but not too much need 
of course