Wheat fields wave across the meadow
bright yellow 'neath a sky of blue
Beautiful swaths of sun bleached straw
cut down long before their due


So like the children of our city
colored yellow, red, brown and gold
Living out their lives in dog years
struck down long before they're old


This sickness flows through our land
leaving the helpless and despaired
Where all are made to be thrown out
none are saved or even repaired


When the silent spring finally comes
and all the birds are in a museum
We'll sell our birthright for a song
so children can pay to see them


Then all the beauty will be gone
as our grandchildren run out to play
Not under blue or across the green
but in the trash from yesterday

Tate