For I am not what's seen as rebellious,
For I just have'th powerful beliefs:
The rebels yonder the world unconscious,
Completely oblivious without grief.
Me, I am different, I have emotions,
But I tend to not have much sympathy,
Giving compassions in small proportions
As lightning strikes and knives yields inside thee.
Do forgive me, for my contumacious
Act, Though it's me being foolish once more.
So It is farthest from'th rebellious
But I would've surely given them what for!
What is the point of being a rebel
If you can't prove your sinfulnes, fellow?
