Hundreds of thousands of pounds
Smoking and scorching and squelching and steaming
As they etch into the grounds
Piles and piles and piles of money
Made by men whose souls had died
Willing to glisten the wells below here
With toluene,
xylene,
insect killer,
wafts of swaths of vinyl chloride
Years and years and years of distance
Making all the details tough to recall
A meager fence the only warning
Of the biopersistence that encroaches its thrall