Here is fruit for the birds to pluck,For the rain to soak, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, and the cypress to drop --
Here is a strange and ugly crop.
Here are bones for the insects' feast,
For predators to gnaw, from most to least,
Dirt creeps into a cold, dead breast --
The end of things, the bitter harvest.
apologies to Billie Holiday