“Sell me a spacesuit, no matter how the price is high,
Sell me a spacesuit, I’ll get the hell outa this hive,
Where governments decide for us how to live and die,
Where the big bros feed us their gas-and-death diet,
Promise us heaven on earth, but we never find it.
Please erase my name from those databases of yours
That number us voteless, voiceless spores,
Leave me alone, let me flee, left to my own recourse.
Do I need a passport and a visa to Mars? Oh, yes, of course.
I beg you to forget that my name ever exists –
I don’t want it on any of your fuck’n kill lists.
Sell me a spacesuit, I’ll fly to Mars without regret
Or even somewhere farther on where you haven’t messed up yet,
I’ll finally have a chance to be nobody’s toy or pet.
I don’t care
if there’s no air,
as soon as ya old fucks ain’t there”
And then an angels’ choir would meeow in a style like:
“Why cry, you better buy yourself a quiet lil isle, and a bike,
Live in peace, sow rice, no vice, no war
That’s where you’ll find your heaven’s door –
No need to fly nowhere, no, no, no more…”
“Well, you know, angels, even on a desert island I won’t be freed
From those damn missiles, black oil, money and greed,
From those stupid national anthems or endless slaughter newsfeed –
For power in this world has always meant “live and suffer”
So, guys, let me go, as that’s what y’all never get enough of.”