Transportation to a Dead World

They provide you with a suit, provisions and seed.
Plant this last in rows on the dead planet, give it a month or two
        to come to life.
It'll be like a million new bikes in ribbons at the door
        on Christmas morning.
Only these are bright green bikes. Growing bikes.
Their wheels firmly rooted in the soil.
Their handle-bars high and pointed to the sun.

Imagine one of these impregnating the farrows of your brow.
Or pressed through your pores and soft against
        your hardened heart.
They might not have sentenced you to this planet
        in the first place.

The Government is good but sensible.
They want you learning a trade but far enough away
so you won't inflict any more damage on civilization.
A space suit and a handful of magic beans like some
intergalactic Jack with the power to grow
        giant beanstalks.
Only there is no singing harp.
Just a television with most of the stations blocked.
No golden goose either.
Not at these prices per ounce.

Make this flat dry world come alive and who knows ...
it might generate enough oxygen for breathing.
Imagine that. No more heavy suit. You could be
a farmer like your father was. Peaked cap,
flannel shirt, jeans, and straw flopping from your mouth.
You might even make a go of it.
Sell your ware to other planets.
Grow enough crops to buy yourself a woman someday.
A flesh and blood one if the seasons go as regulated.

You could start your own earth.
Maybe others would want to come here,
not just sent here like you were.
You could be Adam.
A garden of Eden will look good on your record.