| Great white puffs of lumbering buffalo
|
| Blanket the fishbowl sky, and I am tired
|
| I sip my tea and sniff the ocean
|
| Not but an hour from now, I will be home
|
| Swing me low, mark me a coward
|
| The whims of the West must die
|
| Here is the resting ground
|
| Here is my smile, my pink little toes
|
| (Bound to your oil machines)
|
| Death to the civilized
|
| (Hoarding the land and sea)
|
| Death to the civilized
|
| (Stolen through violent means)
|
| Death when all want masquerades as need
|
| The marbled godwit line the coast
|
| I grasp for my straw cap;
|
| I’m lashed to my brave little raft
|
| The waves do toss this worthy vessel
|
| Impress on my tiny brain
|
| This strange and dangerous beauty
|
| I feel it’s scale
|
| I feel its industry.,
|
| Making a flea of us
|
| And dusting us off
|
| And talks in a hush
|
| A little disappointed
|
| (Bound to your oil machines)
|
| Death to the civilized
|
| (Hoarding the land and sea)
|
| Death to the civilized
|
| (Stolen through violent means)
|
| Death when all want masquerades as need |