All the fur and fin will lose again
|
Because our better is their worst reckoning.
|
And our fine feathered friends will sing until they bleed.
|
How will we replace this symphony?
|
|
I’ve got the blackest boots, the whitest skin,
|
Satisfy my sugar tongue again.
|
Sing me lullabies of shoeshine days
|
Gilded verses for your atheling (meaning: noble bloodlines)
|
Sing ‘em to me free and clean.
|
|
All the kids come home with foreign limbs
|
From hunting trips abroad they lose again.
|
And we’ll teach them how to talk
|
And whistle while they walk
|
And do the dirty work of battle hymns.
|
|
I’ve got the blackest boots, the whitest skin,
|
Satisfy my sugar tongue again.
|
Sing me lullabies of shoeshine days
|
Gilded verses for your atheling
|
Sing ‘em to me free and clean.
|
|
Drinking tea with milk and Janjaweed.
|
Pontificate on genocide or greed.
|
With a spoonful of dissent
|
for the orchestra of need
|
just enough to please this colony.
|
|
I’ve got the blackest boots, the whitest skin,
|
Satisfy my sugar tongue again.
|
Sing me lullabies of morhpine dreams
|
Belladonna with her atropine
|
Sing it to me free and clean.
|
|
-----------------
|
Sugar Tongue
|
| Indigo Girls |
