Slouch back to your subterranean network, my plant;
Get saved from the demented personalities of man,
Proach to depression and hide yourself
(And I'll not know when I step on you;
My culinary roots will then not find you).
Save yourself, because I'm one of them:
It's not me who's keeping bugs off you.
Store the little drops in your little straw gadgets,
Or build your quills to hurt me.
(You hurt me?)
But you're nothing compared to me --
Your soil belongs to me,
And so does your air and the foppish sun!
(You're nothing compared to me
Because you're weak, just -- just like them).
