Does the sun have ambitions?
Does he think he's where he should be?
Does he know he's our highest goal,
And, when we stand-up, we're reaching for him?

It's just a fucking ball of fire
And It'll one day kill us all
But that doesn't stop the poets
From writing beautiful greeting-card couplets

And sunbathers are cancerous morons
Do they know what it's doing to them?
I wonder, do they even care?
So long as they're tall, tan, and thin