We’ll make memorabilia, stolen relics of things that were already known,

Bringing over diphtheria; claiming to be gods and that its land we have grown.

But what more are we than the collection of the weeds

That have rooted mankind since thumbs and strengths to perceive?

Preserve it now – cling tightly to your formaldehyde,

Pickle your thoughts but remember lands where your ideas once lied.

What is originality but taking ideas and slamming them together?

What is spontaneity, but chasing after a feeling so familiar?

Will you preserve me?

A feeble mind on centuries of history?

I hope you don’t.

Take these weeds to build your melting pot.

Dig the lands that I have dug and you’ll find the same result,

But add another weed and claim you’ve grown this land.

Pass me your disease but never claim the damned.