Mr. Orange

Drain the gourd with a muddy stick
Take the body out
Spit the seeds at the land
Add powder for the bomb
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 for 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 now your crop 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