The Tears of Our Fathers
Tears of our fathers of old
A silent cry through whips of toil
In rain and in the frozen cold
They work the harvest of the soil.
Tears of our fathers of old
The men that lapped the morsels
The tasteless bread of mold
A fitting feast to mongrels.
As if joy was a distant glow
Or freedom,infinite moons away
Death's heartless striking blow
Was a sweet and wonderous day.
At the cruel hands of the overseers
Their sorrows renewed each day
A beast of labour in many tears
In the stinging sparkling ray.
Through history's ruthless pages
Forlorn are memories that gathers
Through the past century stages
The tears of our fathers!
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