Flies

Your fan of golden hair oiled with rose and cinnamon
As your blood bloomed poppy-red across your velvet coat
Your deep blue velvet coat
Yes, there in Montana prairie grass the Sioux shot Custer down
His red scarf tied, his black boots shined
How beautiful he looked to the flies, the happy kingdom of flies

Dear Custer, there's a Wal-Mart now where once the grizzlies roamed
Mountains of hairspray and cowboy shirts and everyone has a gun
Everyone still has a gun
But high in the rafters above the lights, red finches, they hide their nests
And when our cars drive out of sight they sing symphonies across the night
In their forest of heating pipes

And out past the parking lot along the curb in the wilds of weed and trash
Great armies of the smallest ants fight battles for the glory of their queen
Such a tiny glorious queen
But even the empress of the ants for whom ten thousand fall
Makes not a sound beneath the blades of our great empire of lawns
How quiet is the empire of lawns