I stand in America's fields,
wheat sways, sun sets, sun bleeds.
All is healed: the children sleep,
the pigs bled, cows been fed.
I cannot stay here,
out in the fields.

This wealth doesn't quench my thirst.
But that's OK–I've directions
to a pool of clear water,
where you can drink till you burst:

Out past electric fences,
truck stops and frozen trees,
where the freeways end
and city lights begin.

Pass through crooked streets,
locked doors, whores and leathermen,
empty bottles, empty bars, empty pipes,
black-outs and pointless fights,

walk south of the steel mills,
to Fergus Park.
You'll find a shallow pool
in a meadow of apple trees.
The meadow reminds you of fields.
You drink your thirst.

Over there in American fields,
it's too vast, there's no contrast.
Fergus Park's bounded by dirty streets;
I'm happiest where opposites meet.