Fields of wheat
Bread and butter on our knees
Pretty soon, apart from the love we give and get back from our families
Nothing will be free
This isn't about me

It's about the avenues
Crescents, streets and lanes we've not been to
Windows we've not peeked through
Scuppered lives way out of sight
It isn't always about you

Fields of wheat
Fast forgetting basic needs
Becoming selfish through our scrolling thumbs
Dismissive, scared, uncomfortably numb
Depressive reveries
This bit is about me

Because I'm culpable, you see
In a bubble crying into food I bought so I could fill my face
Not because of need
What a fucking waste of wheat

Fields of wheat
Are you ready to be reaped?
Are you ready for the pinch you'll feel in fractured homes that will not heal?
Oh please believe
This isn't about me