A name on a map, the stench of shit and tar.
A neglected speed limit, a well-attended church and bar.
We're a handpainted For Sale sign in a haze 3 decades old.
Skeleton of a place so many once called home.
Hoar frost on a power line.
A million wasted days and as many wasted minds.
When the farming's done in factories, what's left to do under gray skies?
Left for dead out here a half-century ago.
Fallow fields like bodies hidden beneath the snow.
St. Peter, please
don't call us cause we can't afford to go.
We owe our homes and souls to those on the trading floor.
Sold for pennies
on the dollar just minutes before
we spotted water creeping up towards our front door.
And God knows we've been bet against.
We've got Monsanto seeds and hands stained a dead yellow.
Hedged into penniless irrelevance.
Only bill collectors ever seem to call.
Existing solely so snow has a place to fall.
St. Peter, please
don't call us cause we can't afford to go.
We owe our homes and souls to those on the trading floor.
Sold for pennies
on the dollar just minutes before
we spotted water creeping up towards our front door.

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