I used to wander like a cloud
That floats on high o’er fields and hills;
But ten wild horses wouldn’t drag
Me now among the daffodils !
Not since I learned that flowers and trees
Are nature’s wicked machination,
To spread pollution on the breeze
And blame it on the corporation !
But rather I will get me hence
To where the noisome plant dispels,
Beneath the sulphurated smog,
Fragrance of petrochemicals !
And breathe me deep of that sweet air,
That cool ambrosial water taste,
Which dumb ecologists declare
The distillate of nuclear waste.
And there, in concrete bower reclined,
Give thanks for such rare clarity of mind.
( from ‘The Making of A President’ )