THREE MILE ISLAND


Oh Mama big Mama my Mama
loved Mama pissed Mama
pissed on Mama oh
what we gonna do Mama

I hear the cookfire's
spilled over and its
makin' the ground boil
away into a Reaper wind

and there's good folks
brave and true I hope
tryin' to put it out
but I'm scared Mama

just You try outrunnin'
this fallout fallin' out
fallin' down and down to
where I can't even see it

but I figure Three Mile
is ten hours maybe twelve
upwind from Islands Staten
and Long and Manhattan

and if that demon fire
up and melts the kettle 
maybe we all just gonna
try and run away from
the towns and the sins

all the pretty lights
us burnin' every one
late all night 'cause
You always give to us
what we ask for Mama

ford the Rivers Hudson
and East and Harlem
scramble north through
the woods of Upstate

march on up the road
into the Catskills
lookin' to join those
ghosts playin' ninepins

or into north Jersey
where the factories
done forgot about You
'cause all they can
smell now is themselves

or maybe run ourselves
up all the way to Boston
where they don't like to
talk about You 'cause
You ain't society no more

but what can a poor boy do
but run and run across
Your milk-stained breasts
all tired out from
nursin' too many babies

and why we do this Mama
how we think we can keep
a fire like that goin'
all the time on a river

that You give to us
You not us You Mama
big Mama loved Mama
my Mama oh Mama oh Mama

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This poem is from On Pagan Roads Copyright © 2004 David Arv Bragi