High upon the hilltop the stockpile stands
Bloodless agents have devoured, fresh farmlands.
Spying from the crest of their flagship store
The impure monsters are tough to withstand.
Like silage, we’re fed to the migrant corps,
Countless, forlorn subjects, forced, to sweat like whores.
If we could stand as one in union
We could purge our townships of this point source.
Protecting the border are bastions,
Cast to repel hoggish, restive winds,
And the chill of the markets sweeping rime
And corn’s arctic bite, both frozen and tinned.
We will remain here for all of lifetime,
Upholding justice in the face of crime.
Supermarkets may well bask in their prime
And so we’ll grow our own, as a pastime.