Forney

The grass is a pale yellow The sky groans above it The children play on the grass And their feet crunch on the grass Like snow in the winter-time And I envy the Scottish, the Irish. The plow rusts in the soil The companion of labour and toil Lies encased in the muck of The Blackland Prairie. The lifeless form steering the John Deere Probably drunk on cheap bitter beer Pilots the monster through forest Driving Pan and the Satyrs away And this is only another day Of destruction on the prairie. And Suburbia is built On top of God's earth, and false names, Deceitful names, are given to the editions: Woodcreek, Sunny Peak, Deer Leap Where the creek is dry The sun refuses to shine And the deer is extinct. The wind cuts like a razor Through the few trees that remain. The people drive their cars While their children sit inside, Playing their video games, seeing stars Their brains already dead. And the rain does not come Because of man's greed, and Off the highway to Hell Lies a young sapling, full of Promise, waiting to live, Then stripped from the earth by The jaws of the yellow monster.