Slime-coated meaty masses slither through the mud.
Thousands more just like the little beasts.
Silent creeping pink and eyeless oozing tubes of flesh,
looking for their next subterran feast.

There's no cosmic purpose for you existing.
You won't get what you want just by wishing.
Praying won't help because there's nobody listening.
The closest thing you have to a reason for living,
is to be digested.
Slime-coated meaty masses slither on the ground.
They see you and they drool and salivate.
Feeding on our best and worst and all points in between.
What better reason for us to celebrate?

Slime-coated meaty masses slither in the rain.
The closest thing to God you'll ever know.
You only get one chance here so try to make it good,
and do something useful before you have to go.