Solvents and paint poured down the drain
There were complaints, only forty years late
Peculiar taste of acetates
Migraine headaches, growing cellular rates

What we pour in the soil
Whether poison or oil
Will eventually spoil

The solvents spilled down Cedar Hill
Feeding a well and a weeping willow
That man next door lived here before
But he knew the score when his tree hit the floor

What we put in the ground
Whether planted or plowed
Will eventually be found
It will come back around

What we pour in the soil
Whether poison or oil
Will eventually spoil