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 
They're praying and saluting
They're 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 won't keep the sky from falling...