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I am writing a poem on this day, About a place far far away. The sky was blue, the grass green, flowers, birds, and animals completed the scene. At this place, I had a great job, mowing grass with a guy named Bob. It was easy work mowing the grasses, everything was pretty for the masses. One day the supervisor came along, so my buddy Bob had to hide his bong. Bossman gave us green slime herbicide, said to apply around the stones four inches wide. He wanted improvements for the upcoming parade, the use of the green slime we shouldn't be afraid. About the spraying I did protest, Boss said this stuff is the best. So we did as we were told, those rings of grass soon turned gold. New surprises came in the passing days, One by one died the squirrels, robins and jays. The truth of the green slime herbicide, was total ecological genocide. I talked to a friend named Onalee, who had died in 1863. She suggested suicide, but my time I choose to abide. Years have passed at the cemetery Yet in my heart the pain I still carry For my part in this crime I still pay... I have been unable to make children to this day.
