Everything drains downhill;
And if you check the bottom
You're bound to find a hint
Of what's happening above.
Well, when you take the downhill road
In my vicinity,
What you find's the Trinity,
The three-branched river named by Spaniards
When they chanced this way
In their endless quest for gold.
Even then this landscape feature
Was far more brown than golden;
But these days it's mostly green,
Not emerald green, sea green
Or forest green, but putrid green,
Metallic green, poison green, a green
That leaves one half expecting
To see fish floating belly-up, afraid
That standing too close by its banks
Would be a bad idea.
For uphill from this downhill channel
Has gone from wilderness to Dallas,
Fort Worth, Garland, Irving, Arlington
And an atlas full of others.
This is now our sewer main;
All our sin's remembered here;
But no memories at all
Of the priceless treasures
The Spaniards did not crave
And we no longer have.
(c)2003 John I. Blair
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