With my mop I paint the world
another shade of the same.
I feel no shame for the rising sun
nor heat from the ebbing flame.
I'm sick of all the needless pain
on this silly, spoiled planet
and when I plan, I plan to leave it
no different from when I came.
My shell can fade and crumble
once my ghost has passed
and passing last will be my deeds,
my words, my face, my name.