Fancy churches in small towns

There’s no one left there praying

Poignant people mark their lands

With paper and some sayings

Robe draped monks in solitude

Searching through the ages

Suited people in tall buildings

Earning up their wages

Now we can all see so clearly

Times become all that I can’t stand

Lined up boxes filled with crap

This is our high stature

Structured lives of strategy

Of planning for the future

We want more than we ever had

Why are we so greedy

Help us now before we try

Why are we so needy

The cow in the field will soon be a meal

Is this what were after

Born to be a man with a gun in his hand