Can'T See the Blisters On Their Feet

You can hear the shake and crackle as burnin' flames of grass are crawlin' cross the bitterness and loss. No farmer breaking free from a field today to catch noon time plate of sweet corn, chicken, and key-lime pie. There's no one breakin' from fields 'cause empty fields are dying, dead and gone. And this dried out drought keeps keepin' on but no tears left to wet the rich black soil. And fire keeps creeping 'round and round field's of farmer's found in pubs downtown early in the morning 'till the day is done and wobble walk home at night. And the lines in their faces getting longer every day while the furrows in their cheeks gettin' deep and wide. Who said the furrows of face and field are lookin' like they came from the same damn tribe? I'm here to say the fire that burns today has burned this world for years and years. It's fueled by the bodies of dead, dead children left all alone in the middle of the road. And rebels love to drive right over their hide without a glance back at the death they craft. We don't notice fire burnin' far, far away 'cause we don't smell the smoke and we don't feel the heat and we don't see the blisters on their little burned feet.