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.