The fields are half planted and choking on weeds
I've spread my intentions too thinly again
I'll pass one more harvest empty handed
I'll walk through the market with small wilted flowers
And dry yellow clippings
To force on the guilty the bullied and weak
My tools are all rusted but the blades sharp as ever
I'm burdened to know I could work if I want to
And here from my window I'll watch the woods burning
And the forest floor dwellers leave the crime scene with leisure
Cocky they never built homes in the trees
Pile high the brush in the bright shiny center
The crops will grow up and compete if they want to
And the sign on the road will read Gather Your Own
The canes will be thicker the thorns so much sharper
And not so wide open to the picking again
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