At fifty six,
What song could we sing?
When wheats are so few,
And bowls hardly get their dues?
What song could we sing?
When feet are feeble,
And hands sag,
While the mouths gape for a fill?
After five of ten and six,
What song could we sing?
Of a land once known as Greenland,
Where birds make melodious music
And the woods go down in dance,
While the realms above and below
Vibrate in turns with a holy hallow?
That hood has gone moody
For the known has become the unknown.
Seasons of bounty and bumper harvest,
And of heavy eating and drinking,
Are now tales told only in moonlight.
What song could we sing?
Of the navigation down this fifty six?
Shouldn’t it tell of gruesome sailors?
And wasteful stewards?
Who feed on our engine steams?
And of our sowed seeds?
Ah!
The song should be about
The venomous hunger,
And of anger in the land.
That song is of grains and greens
Now going out of reach,
And of milk and meat,
Now exchanged for millions.
Talking about a song
To raise folks out of the dead dungs;
The notes
Of the diatonic song of “Change” is a migraine,
And folks are gallingly gasping for its antidotes.
