Dry tributes seep deeply within
seeking wet gains and the mercy of men.
Men have no mercy and there is no rain
the desert is spreading misery, pain.
The plants are all dyin’,
poor mama’s are cryin’,
the sun is a shinin’
till the dyin’ is dune.

Sour tributes ooze into the sweet
hoping to wallop the sweet at its’ peak.
The dryness, swarming, sweeps sweets off their feet.
If this don’t cease, they’ll be nothing to eat.
The rivers a sittin’
hold only our spittin’
and tear droplets fallin’
until the last plop squats.

Smogs tribute, gray, curls o’erhead
counting in millions the heads of the dead.
The dead don’t rise and no tears fill our eyes.
The poisons are chokin’; no one can rise.
The air is a sighin’
the oxygen strugglin’
toxins are a buildin’
till the last body lies.

Man’s tribute is digging our graves
a play raged, staged, enacted . . . page by page
by our greed. Did you read the poor reviews?
The state of things was often on the news.
By then we were carin’
cursed anyone darin’
to mess up what’s playin.’
Soon dyin’ . . . will be dune.