Mother Earth’s children run wild,
uprooting her garden,
filling her house with smoke,
pouring poison down her well
and torturing her pets.
Though she’s mad as a sandstorm,
Mother’s more sad than angry.
She punishes the children with famine and flood,
but in the end, she sighs like a spent storm.

Time is a prolific father,
but not as kind as I am, Mother scolds.
If you children would stop your mischief now,
I could heal the damage
before the Old Man comes downs the road.
He’ll be fuming like a volcano,
raging like a blizzard
and swinging his scythe, deaf to your cries,
the sand in his hourglass about to be turned.