Roots To Branches

Words get written.

Words get twisted.

Old meanings move in the drift of time.

Lift the flickering torches.

See gentle shadows change

The features of the faces

Cut in unmoving stone.

Bad mouth on a prayer day,

Hope no one's listening.

Roots down in the wet clay,

Branches glistening.

True disciples carrying that message

To colour just a little

With their personal touch.

Home-spun fancy weavers

And naked half-believers

Crusades and creeds descend like

Fiery flakes of snow.

Bad mouth on a prayer day,

Hope no one's listening.

Roots down in the wet clay,

Branches glistening.

Roots to branches.

Roots to branches.

Roots to branches.

In wet and windy priest-holes.

Grand in vast cathedrals.

High on lofty minarets

Or in the temples of doom.

I hope the old man's got his face on.

He'd better be some quick change artist.

Suffer little children

To make their minds up soon.

Bad mouth on a prayer day,

Hope no one's listening.

Roots down in the wet clay,

Branches glistening.

Roots to branches.

Roots to branches.

Roots to branches.

Roots to branches.

Roots to branches.

Roots to branches.