Drill, Baby, Drill
They pry her open, wrenched ribs cracking under the promise of profit— black gold spills like blood from a wound they will not bandage.
The earth shudders,
beneath the weight of hands that never learned
how to hold anything but power.
They pry her open,
wrenched ribs cracking
under the promise of profit—
black gold spills like blood from a wound
they will not bandage.
"Drill, baby, drill,"
the mantra of kings who measure worth
by what they can take,
as if the roots of ancient forests
do not whisper rebellion,
as if the oceans have not already
swallowed their sins whole.
He stood there,
his hand on a bible
written by men who thought the world was flat,
his lips curling into a smirk that says,
Burn it all,
and call it freedom.
Drill through the mountains,
through the veins of rivers,
through the bones of ancestors buried
with the prayers they never answered.
Drill through lungs already gasping,
through skin that cannot shield
against this fire.
Drill through futures—
our unborn children inherit
the ash.
They applaud.
The suits and ties,
the ones who feast on famine,
raise their glasses of poisoned water
and toast to his gospel.
The crowd chants:
"Make America Great Again,"
and you can almost hear
the glaciers weeping.
But this earth—
she is no victim,
and she is no fool.
Her rage hums beneath their drills.
Her forests, razed,
will become kindling for storms
they cannot control.
Her oceans will rise,
her winds will howl,
until the towers of greed crumble
like sandcastles in her tide.
So drill, baby, drill.
See how far you can sink
before she swallows you whole.