Cemetery

Cemeteries and their growing crop
Of row upon row of stone markers,
Seeded with a nation's precious youth and
Irrigated by a river of never ending tears.

When sons and daughters bury their parents
We call it peace.
When parents bury their sons and daughters
We call it war.

Each generation grows their crop.
We reap what we sow.
We're good at it, maybe too good,
Planting and harvesting these stones.

The harvest grows so great
And the workers become so few.
It's looking like another
Bumper crop again this year.