Another Edgar poem

The number opens with an invocation/karakia, then some kind of vocal refrain, then this: This crown rests heavy, Yet I cannot take it off. It is my inheritance; my legacy. Lunatics are running the asylum: brainwashed in silos, drinking their milos While smog-tinted sky goes and smothers the last remnants of Man's great experiment: freedom. We're not so different, e hoa. [gestures to atua] Our world is much like theirs: we said our prayers in the imperial, despotic tongue while our young hung themselves with extension cords and neckties, seeking a thrill in a chill-seeking age. Their rage, so decadent! so pliable! Solemn and noble fighters who would murder the blighters for confiscating their land, and calmly hand it back to the rangatira: I have instructed them well. So now it falls to me to raise your spirit, and revise the consequences of first contact.