If you—had to live inside a box,
And you—couldn’t go outside to play,
And life—revealed itself as suffering,
You wouldn’t know another way.

If you—could meditate inside a box,
And come—to terms with existential woes,
You’d see—the pointlessness of craving freedom,
And then ascend to the next Bardo.

You believe that it’s wrong, that freedom is
Diminished when immured,
As if to say that we don’t share that fate.
Could it be a kind of liberty to have
One purpose in life,
Even as a morsel on a plate?

We're just—livin’ in a bigger box.
Do we—have any right to claim we’re free?
Our souls—are captives in this worldly prison.
We live and die so the worms can feed.

You believe that it’s wrong, that freedom is
Diminished when immured,
And that might be true, in the here-and-now.
When you’ve seen it philosophically,
When your spirit has matured,
You’ll lose your faith in the myth of sacred cows.