The ashes from the old barn rise.
To the east a lame foal cries.
I’m choking on the fallout from my final stand.
Smouldering junk in my eyes.
There’s a dog scoping for the right tree;
A litter being dunked in the brook.
There’s trouble in the deep country,
Since we turned from the good, good book.
A boy sheltering under gorse;
Gets removed with inhuman force.
His parents must be stricken;
He’s a-screaming and a-kicking
Like a buckin’ maddog horse.
There’s blood creeping from his right knee.
The critter’s dragged away with a look
That says ‘there’s trouble in the deep country
Since we turned from the good, good, book.’
There’s a whispering devil gale
Howling how the old town failed.
The boy is back inside
‘Cause the hollerin’ has died.
I don’t wanna end up in jail.
And the pigs are coming down on me.
I’m in the cellar with my good billhook.
I’m fighting for my sanctuary;
For my freedom and my land and my stuff.
See, I’m the trouble in the deep country,
‘Cause the book weren’t good enough.
Friday, 1 June 2007
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