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