Brackish Butcher Creek

by m.s.wardrip

Up with the morning, Out with the sun,

This Merry-Go-Round will not be outdone,

The shimmering ozone sky, the fresh babbling brook,

Nature is the author, pen in hand, writing the book.

Take a look, quick, oh snap, you missed it!

It was a mountain, shaped like a biscuit,

The farther away, the closer you get,

The more you stand, the less you will sit.

There is an horizon, a straight line they say,

Betwixt land and sky, static and staid,

Forever the line extends on, never ending,

We, on the other hand, always, changing, blending.

When all is said and done, and all balances are due,

The debt is paid, the war is won, and champions but few,

In with the silver, in with the diamonds, in with the gold,

Never in a thousand-thousand years would these ever grow old.

The spoke shaves of coopersmith's, the clanging iron of blacksmiths,

The whining and crying of the sick and disabled, the ugly black list.

The chemicals are released, The fish die in the Brackish Butcher Creek,

There is no contamination anywhere they say, so don’t worry about leaks,

Roll your pant legs up, squish your toes in the mud,

Remember crude oil is just that, naturally occurring crud.

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