fill the land with poisons, no one seems to care.
dump them in the water, inject them in the air,
feed them to your children, pour them down the sink,
never stop to wonder if they’re in the stuff you drink
you’re on the way to work now,
making bombs from nine-to-five;
you figure even if they drop them
that somehow you’ll survive
you take off down the highway
in your shiny death-machine;
the news about the oil spill
has got you feeling pretty mean
They want to stop progress!
It’s all their fault..." you mutter,
"that everything’s in such a mess!"
"They want to take away my job,
and convert my house and car!
Why can’t they be like me,
and just accept the way things are?"
up ahead on the highway,
at the main gate of the plant,
are a thousand marching eco-freaks,
"Close Rocky Flats!" they chant
suddenly you’re overcome
by frustration, rage, and hate;
you step down on the gas...
you head right for the gate...
the sheriff tells you later,
"Son, you’re going to have to pay."
"It’s all their fault!" you scream,
"They were in my goddamn way!"
- T. H. Keyes