Sometimes she feels so stagnant
When the poetry won't come
And the mountain's just a prairie
With a landfill drowning some
New age old wage wishes
Wrangled past the cattle fields
With the oil a pumping black gold
Filled with gages, valves and yields.
Sometimes she smells the flowers
Past the livelihood of stench
Though she knows she's smelling money
She prefers a poor girls bench
In a field of fragrant posies
She would run a country mile
If only she could find a tree
And rest there for a while.
Still the stars shine in the heavens
And the dream is in her head
And she wields a sword of hopeful
Even when she's left for dead
There are ways to find a mountain
Someone always digs a ditch
And shoves another into it
While they are getting rich.
So when she's feeling stagnant
She will search for those who may
Be lying in the valleys
Intended to be graves
No point in dying early
And no way she's going down
But she will share her dreamland
With survivors of the ground.