The Ballad of Our Painted Town

When the sun goes down on the last of the fields,
And blacktop eats up the green,
They’ll call it “progress”, paint it bold—
But the world won’t be what it’s been.

For the trees we lost, and the grass we’ve missed,
Were better than all man can mold:
Every family hour, every laugh, every kiss,
Is worth more than silver or gold.

A hundred years hence, we’ll look around—
At the things they gave “in trust”,
Find the meadows paved and the voices drowned
By the planners’ pride and lust.

They’ll promise improvement and measure wealth
By roads on divided plots,
But the picture God paints, for Himself and us,
Bestows what no builder has got.

Steward and neighbor, hold tight your land—
It’s as sacred as any creed.
For every claim of the “common good”
Turns sour with unbalance and greed,

When financiers fancy the earth as coin
And “landmen” sharpen their pen,
The city folk gather with purpose vague,
And the payments circle again.

When a whisky shared or a round of golf
Bids the reluctant a vote,
With the neighbor’s virtue set adrift
And decency kept afloat—

What comes of a town when its heart grows cold,
Does birthright matter or land?
It ends in a tangle of undelivered oaths,
And logic that slips from hand.

Promise or property—what do we trust?
The rights of the earth or man?
In the picture God painted, plain and just,
Let us honor the original plan.

—John Livingston