On top of the high hill, I see my house and all the people on my street. They are no worse off than the families on the next street. On top of the mountain, I see my county line, and the next fork in the creek. We are no worse off than when you found us, 1983. And frayed are these ties that bind. And blame falls in behind. On top of the world I hear our mother sigh and cry herself to sleep, we are the world inside a stand-off with the world.