Industry defecates such a stench of toxic trash :
	the seed man sows, out of phallus-like pipes and stacks, spews.
In mortal, metal barrels - a persistent, chemical-cocktail stash :
	poisonous pus from septic sores someday to ooze.

What kind of husbandry as man, on a constant quest for cash,
	rapes Mother Nature instead of woos?
Man ought to nurture nature - instead man and nature clash
	in a war where man and nature'll lose.

There is a great, decisively divisive chasm
	between where we art
		and where we ought.
Rived by a raging river of industry's pernicious plasm,
	we are quite apart from that, of which we once were a part.
		And a crossing, with many dangers, would be fraught,

Are we a cancer for which nature has no cure :
	malignant masses that stand by and use
the morbid scenarios that spurious prophets procure
	as our gloomy guide and collective subconscious' cues.

Unwisely we hearken to the wily words of doom-mongers
	who devise the details of our demise.
Our hopes are consumed by their apocalyptic hungers
	as we submit, without challenge, to their careless lies.

As this fair world turns to ash,
	it's sad it seems we cannot wisely choose
to steer clear from a dreaded earth's backlash,
	and change course on this deadly cruise.

So let's give timid Harmony just one more ba.......er.......chance,
	so we need not someday sing green blues.