| Once upon a time,
|
| In the land of Hush-A-Bye,
|
| Around about the wondrous days of yore,
|
| They came across a sort of box,
|
| Bound up with chains and locked with locks
|
| And labeled «Kindly do not touch; |
| it’s war».
|
| A decree was issued round about,
|
| And all with a flourish and a shout
|
| And a gaily-colored mascot tripping lightly on before.
|
| Don’t fiddle with this deadly box,
|
| Or break the chains, or pick the locks.
|
| And please don’t ever play about with war.
|
| Well, the children understood.
|
| Children happen to be good
|
| And they were just as good around the time of yore.
|
| They didn’t try to pick the locks
|
| Or break into that deadly box.
|
| They never tried to play about with war.
|
| Mommies didn’t either;
|
| Sisters, aunts, grannies neither.
|
| 'Cause they were quiet, and sweet, and pretty in those wondrous days of yore.
|
| Well, very much the same as now,
|
| Not the ones to blame somehow
|
| For opening up that deadly box of war.
|
| But someone did.
|
| Someone battered in the lid
|
| And spilled the insides out across the floor.
|
| A sort of bouncy, bumpy ball
|
| Made up of guns and flags and all the tears, and horror, and death that comes
|
| with war.
|
| It bounced right out
|
| And went bashing all about,
|
| And bumping into everything in store.
|
| And what was sad and most unfair
|
| Was that it didn’t really seem to care
|
| Much who it bumped, or why, or what, or for.
|
| It bumped the children mainly.
|
| And I’ll tell you this quite plainly,
|
| It bumps them every day and more, and more,
|
| And leaves them dead and burned, and dying,
|
| Thousands of them sick and crying.
|
| 'Cause when it bumps, it’s really very sore.
|
| Now there’s a way to stop the ball.
|
| It isn’t difficult at all.
|
| All it takes is wisdom,
|
| And I’m absolutely sure
|
| That we can get it back into the box,
|
| And bind the chains, and lock the locks.
|
| But no one seems to want to save the children anymore.
|
| Well, that’s the way it all appears,
|
| 'Cause it’s been bouncing round for years and years.
|
| In spite of all the wisdom 'wiz since those wondrous days of yore
|
| And the time they came across the box,
|
| Bound up with chains and locked with locks,
|
| And labeled «Kindly do not touch; |
| it’s war». |