To the north are the canefields, seas of waving green

And then the fires come, and burn the water

It's a sight to be seen



The men in slouch hats reap the harvest

Brown sticks they place in cages



And then the trains hiss, they carry bounty

From the furnace to the mill



Stick men silhouettes bend against the flame,

Shout above the crackle crunch.



Watch as the ground spits at the sky

A yellow-orange spit from a mouth that will never die