A sky of brass, the sun a flame, And the land no place to dwell; The only spot that God forgot, A hunk of earth, so doggone hot That it still belongs to Hell. An ore-wagon creaking over a desert road, going at a snail-like pace, heading for a jumble of bright-hued, rock-ribbed hills. The land a desolation of sand, harsh sage, cactus, which rattled like paper in the heat-laden breeze. The sky a brassy dome, almost green in its intensity, out of which flamed a sun.…
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