From earliest books
Comes belated ink
Of feather green toads
Paired in potent pink
And barley bears
From distinguished heirs
Make nests for us
In Bavarian lairs
To each comes ends
Lone messengers send
Telegrams, to aging lambs
While singular troops'
Countenance droops
Over infamous hillsides
We have come to be known as the deprived
A lone boy cries
From bleak hillsides
A decade made
By our dim age
The tools have been lost for hearing
Who will endure, for the endearing
Snowy slopes loom large upon northern poles
Weariness instructs, all the hearts of the bold
Heads hang low, down leaf strewn roads
From here, where are we to go