The Moth and the Candle

Smoke rising over hills of verdant beauty
Steam creeping tendrils through dense undergrowth
Hard-eyed men, muskets at the ready
Watch the transport of future oblivion move off

Sweating workers pile the cargo in high stacks
Paid next to nothing or working for free
The lowest elements in a chain of producers
Will use the product to will away their woes

In valleys near by and as far as the eye can see
A sea of bright red sways in the gentle breeze
An untapped fortune through unseen misery
But resources like this do not stand idle for long

Bright-red, the coats of the soldiers of the king
Bright-red, the colour of the pretty flower
Bright-red, the blood of those who died to control it
Bright-red, the poppy flower, mother of opium.