The river’s drying. No-one cares. The sky’s on fire, but no-one dares deny that life is good; so they won’t change. The end is coming. Build a boat. A boat won’t sail on river-beds. The land is dead. They’ll seed a wider field instead.
Old Noah led his flock inside, his wife, his kids and grandkids, sheep and goats, a cow or two, some birds who’d taken roost inside the roof.
The sky’s all smoke. The field’s all broken. No-one dares deny that life is good.
The swollen river rose like heaven’s fist in mighty waves. Only old Noah’s saved.