Fill me up on pesticide, Don't care if I live or die, We won't hear eastern kingbird, He choked singing his very last word. We're heading for a silent spring, us birds won't sing We're heading for a silent spiring, us birds won't sing Poor wood-thrush is in a rush Fleeing chemical ambush Our wilderness ploughed you people need food Flew twelve thousand miles just to sing to you We're heading for a silent spring, us birds won't sing In the words of Emily Dickinson, we're the rowdy of the meadow