Fill me up on pesticide,
don't care if I live or die,
we won't hear eastern kingbird,
he choked singing his very last word.
We're heading for a silent spring, us birds won't sing
We're heading for a silent spiring, us birds won't sing
Poor wood-thrush is in a rush
Fleeing chemical ambush
Our wilderness ploughed you people need food
flew twelve thousand miles just to sing to you
We're heading for a silent spring, us birds won't sing
In the words of Emily Dickinson, we're the rowdy of the meadow
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