Here comes the beekeeper With her pitcher full of smoke She'll put us all to sleep I hope it's dreamless and it's deep Sweet Prometheus, come home They took away our fire And all that this scarcity promotes Is desperate men and tyrants
What fine design What hands What minds The envy of Eden Our tools and our reason It's clear in the animals eyes We stand Upright Build fires At night
Made on the sixth day To rest on the seventh And now we just try to survive The surgeon and farmer meet And each greets the other with a bow They're kindred instruments, you know The scalpel and the plow In the shadow of the mountain We work when work abounds And we wear out all our prayers When the work runs out
