They don’t listen from distance,
Or focus up close,
And the mission you’re risking
Is token at most,
As the fate of your labour
Is scorched of reward
And baiting the graves
Only war can afford.
And soon after its draught has
Blown over your cove
All your rafters of laughter
Will soak up their load,
And the sound of surroundings
Will alter and stall
As all around town
Only morticians call.
So remain where the danger
Is smothered by stone
And exchanges can safely
Be moulded alone,
And the touch of another
Is scrawled on the walls
For such is the love
Only forced exile draws.
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