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A Silver Mt. Zion: American Motor Over Smoldered Field

A Silver Mt. Zion: 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

Theyre praying and saluting

Theyre 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 wont keep the sky from falling...