Post-Apocalyptic Blues

Has Granny gone batty? She tells us of love, Of flowers and trees And a thing called a ‘dove’. But none of these things exist now today, Since the world heated up And the lakes turned to clay. The deserts are barren Around our estate, It’s a fight for survival, A fight against fate. We hear England’s legends Of a pleasant green land But the truth that we’ve known Is just mountains of sand. It is said it was greed, A disdain for the Earth, That robbed this poor planet Of its greatness and worth. We hear these old stories And yearn for those days Where living was easy Beneath the Sun’s rays, We starve now and bake If we venture outside And they claim again oxygen Prices will rise. We fight for survival, We fight just to live, We fight and we fight, There’s no love left to give. Perhaps Granny is batty With the things that she tells Through a longing for legend Of fresh water wells. Or perhaps it’s a memory That she holds so dear; Yes – I see now the truth In her lone dusty tear.