The crows take wing over flat spare land.
The farmers are annoyed. They clap their weathered hands.

The harvesters are hungry. The frost is near at hand.
The crows scour their beaks on the flat dry land.

Church women clutching their worn out baskets
praise the Lord and the church supper biscuits.

The locals gather round at the produce stand.
The crows fly hard over flat bare land.

The corn is in the silo. Only stubble remains.
The crows caw harsh on the dark brown plain.

Golden feathers cleaving through the day-
Her wings embracing sunlight's burning rays-
Talons curl, uncurl. Soon she alights.
Her prey is trembling in her sights. She strikes.

Welcome to our country, son.
Welcome to our land.
Lemme check your green card, son.
We're gonna take a stand!

We're gonna put our foot down, son.
Our country's going to hell!
We don't want you around here, son.
You'll know it very well.

Look at all the factories, son.
Look at all the rust.
Don't get in our way now, son.
We'll grind you into dust.

Let other countries ***** at us.
We'll never give a ****.
And if they're getting in our way,
They'll get the back of our hand!

Our Leader knows what's best for us.
He always tells it straight.
He lets us know it night and day-
America will be great!

We're gonna be so great now, son.
You'd better understand.
And if you don't like our way, son,
Then get the hell off our land!

how ephemeral
is your burning glance
said her smile