作词 : Thomas, Williamson
on no work of words now for three lean months in the bloody
Belly of the rich year and the big purse of my body
I bitterly take to task my poverty and craft：
To take to give is all,return what is hungrily given
Puffing the pounds of manna up through the dew to heaven,
Tne lovely gift of the gab bangs back on a blind shaft.
To lift to leave from the treatures of man is pleasing death
That will rake at last all currencies of the marked breath
And count the taken,forsaken mysteries in a bad dark.
To surrender now is to pay expensive ogre twice.
Ancient woods of my blood,dash down to the nut of seas
If I take to burn or return this world which is each man's work.