I see a field, a field far away,
Where children sit and laugh and play,
Among the ears that shine like gold,
With summers warmth not winters cold.
They do not cry, nor do they fear,
As a reaper tall draws closer, near.
He’s come to cut the waving wheat
To make the yummy pastries sweet
To fill their tummies till they bleat,
“Oh mummy, we’ve had too much to eat.”
And as their laughter dies on the wind
They never see the man that grinned.
A gothic short poem about nescient climate change deniers.
The reaper is not Death, the reaper is Greed.