We, the people, are arses.  We do not starve you of your caviar; we serve you knives to carve out the hearts of those who are serving you caviar.  We, the ones who you look at and not even spare your perfectly foiled spit on, we who give no shits about who wins or loses, we who want you to know that we have no hope nor desire to win, just to see you suffer.  We are the frogs who were kissed a million times, and remained frogs.  We, the weeds who don’t care because we lost count of the number of times we have been whacked for your perfect manicured looking gardens to look fabulous.  We who mow your lawns and sell you weedkill, we the weeds, we know your gardens are sickly and your grasses hollow yet we do not mind giving you weedkill knowing it will kill us. We, the weeds, know that the weedkill will weaken your perfect grass-fed sows for it is not the weeds, we, who can weaken you anymore; we know you have found alternate lives in your metropolis for us to be raked yes, and provide you with what you needs need; and so we went for the weedkiller so your roots and soil become soiled too for we, the weeds know, that the weedkiller will kill us but will weaken you too.  We, the weeds, got tired.  Got tired of being told that we matter.  That all lives matter.  That we have a chance and must have a chance to live.  All while you talked pretty, found ways to kill us and kill us without us having a chance to say anything to you coz you talked sweet. We couldn’t even partake of our deaths coz you took that away from us.  We, the weeds, organized ourselves.  We, the weeds, bought weedkiller not just as a suicide but as a suicide mission pact to destroy the roots of the grassy knolls so that they may never be sure again whether they have anything of pure value left growing in their hills.  We, the laughed at, uninvited weeds do not question whether we belong or know where or what we must be going; we know we belong nowhere, never have, never will so waste not your precious breath calling us further names of our nameless, worthless existence.  We, the weeds, are beyond your cutting aspersions, we are hardened and the only we can revenge our lot is the weedkiller.  We, the weeds, have no other saving grace; we do not belong in your ever growing need and world for faster, better, quicker.  We, the weeds, simply do not belong.  SO before you kill us, o grassmasters, watch us…for we have found the way to weaken you who have led us for far too long…we have found the gardenkiller but we, the useless weeds, have let it call itself gardenmaster, fooling even the fool into believing that he is the gardenmaster.  We know who the gardenmasters have always been; we, the weeds, have decided to bring in the gardenwrecker pretending to be gardenmaster, to wreck not just the grasses, never mind the garden weeds; we, the weeds, have finally found a wrecker who will take down the all the grassmasters.  We, the weeds, are happy we will die, finally, at the hands of the weedkiller, and not you grassmasters, always laughing your way to the grass banks.  We, the weeds, have finally hired and brought in a wrecker who knows how to kill us, meaningfully, not meaninglessly as you masters did all these years.    
We, the weeds, are happy now, real happy…