| All the fur and fin will lose again
|
| Cause our better is their worst reckonin'
|
| And our fine-feathered friends will sing until they bleed
|
| And how will we replace that symphony?
|
| I’ve got the blackest boots, the whitest skin
|
| Satisfy my sugar tongue again
|
| Bring me love that buys us shoe-shine days
|
| Guilded verses for your ethylene
|
| And sing it 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 love that buys us shoe-shine days
|
| Guilded verses for your ethylene
|
| And sing it to me free and clean
|
| Drinking tea with milk and Janjaweed
|
| Pontificate on genocide or greed
|
| With a spoonful of descent
|
| For the orchestra of need
|
| Is just enough to please this colony
|
| I’ve got the blackest boots, the whitest skin
|
| Satisfy my sugar tongue again
|
| Bring me lullabies and morphine-dreams
|
| Belladonna with her atropine
|
| And sing it to me free and clean |