She danced around and pranced around wherever the warm winds blew.
And the falcon was a pretty bird. Her voice was always still,
But men with drums and men with guns they taught her how to kill.
Her eye was on the sparrow. Her mind was on the dove,
But no one cared and no one dared to speak to her of love.
Her eyes are always hooded. Her claws are sharp as steel.
We teach her not to see too much. We teach her not to feel.
Go build you a log cabin on a mountain so high,
And hear the feathered war-birds yell as she goes screaming by.
She'll tease you. She'll please you. She'll satisfy your needs,
But someday she might turn around and maul the hand that feeds.
Your hours might be numbered. Your end might come someday.
Go break her chain and free her brain and send her on her way.
And the falcon is a pretty bird, wonders as she flies.
She asks us easy questions. We tell her easy lies.
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2017/11/27 - 08:45