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