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