in rivers of right they spawn

eggs already torn and bent

that grow deprived of dawn

to salve and heal their rent

 

and battered by a rusty flail

to a state not unlike trance

a polka spinning them pale

to a hapless agony of dance

 

chalking symbols onto slate

a scratch makes evil mute,

silent observances of hate

doomed flora lacking root

 

sometimes they try to think

attempting efforts at reason

the pain making them blink

weeds sprout out of season

 

wheat grows mottled, arid,

down its stalks a toxic trail,

stark kernels all miscarried,

bees, pollen-free and frail

 

there's some stream I know

refreshed with algae green,

oxygen-free dead fish roe,

as if a wanton devil's been