| Say we’re here to reclaim our past
|
| Though we knew it couldn’t last
|
| Our pathetic attempt to fashion this place
|
| To our own, alien ways
|
| Say we’re here to watch our homes
|
| Be buried by a hail of stones
|
| Assume it all
|
| And let’s drink to our fall
|
| Oh, friends, let us drink to this memory so fine
|
| For not all is lost when there is still bread and wine
|
| And then we slip back
|
| I am I, you are you
|
| And the life we knew, we loved so much
|
| Is here, unblemished, untouched
|
| And waiting for that hail of stones
|
| We’ll meet our fate at home
|
| As men turn to mice
|
| With the closing of the vice
|
| Oh, friends, let us drink to this memory so fine
|
| For not all is lost when there is still bread and wine
|
| Oh, how we’ll miss your green and gold
|
| The tinkling of your streams
|
| The majesty of your storms
|
| The sounds of your evening doves
|
| Your harvest sun warm on our skin
|
| The scent of your hot cotton
|
| Your leopards in the sun |