Drain the gourd with a muddy stick
Take the body out, spit the seeds at the land Add powder for the bom
Find a human trinket and explode it with this line
"I'm an arsenal in fact and now your style is mine"

Take a look What is left?
Mob of tears and ditch of weed
Mr Orange you've grown up sad,
and now your orchard's science blind

Dig a hole Jump inside Peek out your fear
Read about an iron hand Pretend that he is near
Drink a little vodka now, loosen up your brain
Arsenals have random days, your weapons pour down rain

Take a look What becomes of uniforms and misery?
Mr Orange you've grown up hard, and your is science blind
Then the admonition comes
You can't find your fuzzy feet
The fist that strikes you is a shard
Mr Orange you're full of seeds

You'll be here for a thousand years
Sick and tired A lofty fruit
Mr Orange you paint up nice,
and now your orchard's still and pocked