In this age, we’re engaged
In a campaign of scorched earth.
We lay the blame, but never lay claim
To anything of worth.
Like a rain forest burned to the ground.
Where the next cure could have been found,
By a genius born on the south side,
Who was gunned down
Before she tried.
We then curse the hot air,
Rolling over the land,
As we stand there
With a match in our hand.