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The tongues of some men are made of metal |
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The tongues of some men are made of oil |
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But the keeper of those men never rolled |
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Their tongues for anybody's free ride but his own |
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Now the oily tongues are thirsty for black gold. |
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But the old men are going to bed |
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They'll be sleeping through the future |
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And the children red with fire |
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They got to move away the old man's rusty beds. |
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Now the tongue, the tongue of a master |
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That should be laughter - with dancing legs |
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Like a flying wheel for the weak and sad man |
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Some tongues of man are made of silence |
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And your eyes will listen. |
