Howling on about tradition
I ponder on these puzzles
How traditionally the stuck in muds
Put truth and change in iron muzzles
Traditionally the well-fixed folk
Had the goodies to themselves
Leaving peasantry to pleasantly
Bless crumbs on empty shelves
I remember well those olden days
Singing out for love and peace
In well-holed shoes and chilblain blues
Jason and his golden fleece
Look around this world today
A mass of suffering tradition
No control no voice at all
Convened in empty lots to miss in
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