Ah, the ripe legends of those endless acres
and the first farmers who strapped balloons
to their belts and rose up to claim them.
They sowed the peculiar postscript of their laboratories
and reaped a viscous bounty - cordial tears
streaking church steeples while vicars inside
lectured on the perilous path of the Godplayer,
aiming pedagogical forefingers at each member
of their dwindling congregations, like men
handing out cough sweets.
Of course it ended in disaster. These stories
always do. Oceans soured and expired;
fish turned their dead bellies to the moon.
We tell these tales to keep our heads down;
to boot our flighty feet
and keep us heavy on the ground.
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