What is it about these money-makers
Profiteering like Vanity Fair
Is it something to do with the dream of Mars
And their hope to settle there?
We take it you have very high hopes
And need a trillion or two
To make sure all your family make it
And your grey Ferrari too
We know you need your profits
To buy your one-way fayres
But, boy, that day can’t come soon enough
When your cosmo suits you wear
It’s true you’ll need a packet
To make it through the stars
Those left behind aren’t in your mind
In your push to get to Mars
We know we are your lackeys
The ants who do your work
Our suffering’s inconsequential
When in golden vaults you lurk
Our houses feel like fridges
The cold, it takes its toll
But millions left in fuel poverty
Matter not when you’re cruising on oil
Let’s hope a massive rocket
Will soon be ready to flee
Full of all the executives
Of Esso, Shell and BP
Profiteering giants, heartless to the core
When you leave, we won’t grieve
We’ll give a mighty roar
So, Fuck Off all you bastards
Take your shiny cars
Don’t look back, ‘cause we won’t
The day you go to Mars
