| Today in a village of famine
|
| A feast was had by all
|
| So stop all the presses
|
| And listen for the riots and brawls
|
| But no rifles were aimed at comrades
|
| Only at our fascist lords
|
| There were ghosts of Winstanley’s farmers
|
| When they were wielding ploughs not swords
|
| What reason have they to dance and to sing?
|
| Their pockets are all empty
|
| They’ve not stewards, queens or kings
|
| No bosses, laws or order
|
| Marching armies must be bring
|
| To give them all a reason now
|
| To dance and to sing
|
| Hush, scholar of history
|
| Do not write a word
|
| We’ll make repetition out of precedents
|
| See that this dream goes deferred
|
| Tell on insatiable greed within us
|
| And how the rebellion didn’t work
|
| So in a hundred years, it’s forgotten
|
| Shift the tale and shift the worth
|
| Where the women took up arms
|
| To kill the fascists to protect life
|
| Where the food was freed at last
|
| For all the peoples' fork and knife
|
| 'Tis the reason they have to dance and to sing
|
| Their pockets are all empty
|
| They’ve no stewards, queens or kings
|
| No bosses, laws or order |
| Everyone has everything
|
| Each day gives them a reason now
|
| To dance and to sing |