Small Towns Turning Brown

Small towns turning brown, no where left to run.
World majorities chasing down our elderly, to them it's fun.
Everywhere a foreign tongue, a foreign song is sung.
Hardly containing their celebration, convinced they've all but won.
Heaving grief, heaving groceries, seven years worth at least.
Cans of expired yellow pea soup will make a splendid feast.
The days of our lives, as the soap opera goes, are as grains of sand.
Leaving your bike laying around, letting go of a child's hand,
were luxuries, not guarantees.
You foolish disciples of the Pharisees.
You gave up without a fight so that you could have a life of ease.
The fruit of betrayal, no safe streets left to walk upon.
Everything you took for granted, is now gone.



-- "Canadian Peasant" youtuber