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 vapor 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
Hey, okay
Kiss me slowly
Beneath the dripping leaves
Of our train track trees
Though sickly and diseased
Some weeds thrive anyways
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
This fence around your garden
Won't keep the sky from falling...
