Solvents and paint poured down the drain There were complaints, only forty years late Peculiar taste of acetates Migraine headaches, growing cellular rates
What we pour in the soil Whether poison or oil Will eventually spoil
The solvents spilled down Cedar Hill Feeding a well and a weeping willow That man next door lived here before But he knew the score when his tree hit the floor
What we put in the ground Whether planted or plowed Will eventually be found It will come back around
What we pour in the soil Whether poison or oil Will eventually spoil
