American Motor Over Smoldered Field

It will not be a tender fire Upon your postcard mountains  No golden children  Will write hymns about  The slow defeat of your reckless destiny   Bullets in the bellies of babies  Sleeping in the strangest places  Indifferent to the blinding grace of  The vapour-trails and burning waste  Of your baptist skies   Oh! To live! In a burning house  With burning children eating dust  And finger-painting flags  Smoke pours out of their eyes  They're praying and saluting They're all hanged up    Hey! Okay! Kiss me slowly  Beneath the dripping leaves  Of our traintrack trees  Though sickly and diseased Some weeds thrive anyways   This fence around your garden won't keep the sky from falling...