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...