Where sleep our children in these dark days
when their laughter we long to hear?
Where are their little excited eyes
and those antics which bring us to tears?
Where are those moments when first we feel
the rhythm and rhyme of giggling time?
And oh, those games of peek-a-boo,
love so sweetly exchanged in kind.
And, what of the memories of their growth?
those times of both joy and pain,
all cherished alike, in the sharing
all counted by love as gain.
Where are our children? Oh no! Oh God!
And, what of the memories of their growth?
those times of both joy and pain,
all cherished alike, in the sharing
all counted by love as gain.
Where are our children? Oh no! Oh God!
They're victims of our own moral sleep.
For they lie in the grave of convenience,
unmourned in the graveyard of greed.
And still we slumber while they die,
as we indulge those reprobate minds,
which speak in a way that - Hey, its OK
For they lie in the grave of convenience,
unmourned in the graveyard of greed.
And still we slumber while they die,
as we indulge those reprobate minds,
which speak in a way that - Hey, its OK
(said the insane to the morally blind).
-Larry Burnett
