That stubble, once a forest full of trees,
now rides the hills down to the turd brown sea.
I’d heard the drumming coming from the banks.
An army of axe men formed into ranks.
Firing up engines of desolation,
scarring the earth in ragged ablation.
And down the river, those drums went silent.
Modern man wondered where the tribes all went.
In ancient temples they’d preached mysteries.
Lost to the burning of the histories,
by purists who’d gathered in mankind’s flanks
to massacre all of the mainstream cranks.
And they sang their songs of faith and nation
to the tune of engines of desolation.