Robert Podhajsky, Ocean Shores
There is a man upon the hill with a song about a magic pill.
It’s quite large in the hand derived from deep in the land,
Can cure the ills of no money no it is not funny,
Black to start with then the smoke yes ScoMo it’s not a joke.
We need the air clean and pure, yes that’s a cure.
Love of money, wants attached, is from where the song is hatched;
Keeps you marching for a goal that many know is not in coal.
The ones you serve have no care, they’re not concerned with dirty air,
That clogs all Nature in its works, and reveals the Politician’s quirks.
You sing your song upon the hill, we know about your magic pill,
The Hill Song tribe with arms held high, have no care for our clean sky.