The soft-falling snow
Does not awaken you,
Oh City on a Hill.
The Earthquake does not shake you
From your summer drowse.
Uncontained holly wood fires flair higher
But nobody quenches the insatiable fire
Battle smoke darkens the rising sun,
The bloodthirsty drink by moonlight.
But still you do not prepare.
The barefoot child cries for food.
The tornado forms a black vortex
Hailstones like millstones
Bury dead crops
And the neighborhood watch
Cries, “All is well!”