|
All the dancing trees speak of
truth
Quietly, softly someone cries; Our Youth!
Our Youth!
Those who believe in evolution
They think it is the solution
For survival of the fitest
Wishing to be a witness
To a master race
Again that face?
Again that face!
Again that face.
All the busy-ness of thee
Probing through those free
>From some master's whip
Who are wishing to sail a strong ship,
But too youthful to know
Which way to grow.
Then who will strive
To keep them alive?
Will it be that of uniform
No deviation from the norm
Job is cold and hard they speak
Handling the weak.
With them no unity
For parent and impunity
Where are the trees of truth,
Why are they so aloof?
Those of great original song,
Somewhere they fell wayside along,
Too busy shepherding each other,
For the youth, and those to cover. |
