Res John Burman

(27th October 1942 to 'Not Yet! ' / London, Middlesex, England)

Appalachia, Applachia.


Appalachia, your green mountains are weeping black tears.
Mine Owners. Your neighbours are living in fear.
You're raping the mountains and Good Mother Earth,
Your millions are nothing to what this land is worth!

Appalachia, your sons have fought in all wars,
They've given their lives so what's yours remains yours!
They've marched off to battle for that Dread God Mars,
Would you have them return to a land that's all scars

Appalachia, Appalachia, I know you of old,
Your songs are worth more than silver and gold.
Scots - Irish and English and Cornishmen too,
All men who sang here when this land was new.

Appalachia, your mountains will always need trees,
To hold back the rainfall, like the shore holds the seas,
Without them you rivers will run clear no more,
But be thick with slime like a slaughter-house floor!

Appalachia, your mountains should be sacred lands.
To show what your God could do with His hands.
Mountain Top Removal is a crime against Him!
And a crime against nature, a terrible sin!

Appalachia, the time has more than come round,
Time to start healing on this Holy Ground.
Your men folk have fought that all men might be free.
That freedom should apply both to you and to me!

Who wants to hear the rumble of dynamite all day?
Or giant earthmovers where the blue jay should play!
The shareholders and mine owners don't live around here,
So time to leave the mountains to the people who care!

America, America, come listen to this prayer,
It'll be too late to save 'em when the mountains ain't there!
Appalachia, come waken, and nevermore say,
Mr Peabody's Coal Train has carried us away!

Appalachia, Appalachia, I know you of old,
Your trees should be valued much higher than gold,
The green lungs of the mountains in the Land of the Free
Not a scar on a Mother, where her breast used to be!

(28th May 2008)

Submitted: Friday, June 20, 2008

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