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.