On this road, does the black tarnish smell of death
Clasped in tree hands, the clothes of those once organic
In the high tops of the willows, hangs a lonely suicide
The air desolate of any breath, only carbon monoxide clarity

A world that has hung its head, and has eaten all that did not see
Now do beasts roam, filled with acidic humanity
Gnashing teeth at all moving, setting fire to any green
This march of sorrow, has crossed the plains and mountains

From the wes the California skyline, ablaze like a victorian candle; a majestic sight cut with screams
In the northwest, the great  trees fallen in Washington, titans of once something pure

In the the Great Lakes, a pestilence carved out with rib bones
In the south, peanut fields and farmland mere toys to a malicious force
in the Delta, the swamps all gasping for air, choking in silence
In New England, the cities and metropolitan philosophy

A match burnt away in a gale of hatred
On this road, does the ash begin to pile
The cries of help, become ambient noise
And the trembling hands, soon become frozen