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

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