(Mallet)

And you say that the battle is over, and you say that the war is all done.

Go tell it to those with the wind in their nose who run from the sound of the gun.

And write it on the sides of the great whaling-ships,

or on ice floes where conscience is tossed.

With the wild in their eyes, it is they who must die,

and it's we who must measure the loss.



And you say that the battle is over, and finally the world is at peace.

You mean no one is dying, and mothers don't weep, or it's not in the papers, at least.

There are those who would deal in the darkness of life,

there are those who would tear down the sun.

And most men are ruthless, but some will still weep

when the gifts we were given are gone.



Now the blame cannot fall on the heads of a few, it's become such a part of the race.

It's eternally tragic when that which is magic be killed at the end of the glorious chase.

From young seals to great whales, from waters to wood,

they will fall just like weeds in the wind.

With fur coats and perfumes and trophies on walls, what a hell of a race to call men.



And you say that the battle is over, and you say that the war is all done.

Go tell it to those with the wind in their nose who run from the sound of the gun.

And write it on the sides of the great whaling-ships,

or on ice floes where conscience is tossed.

With the wild in their eyes, it is they who must die,

and it's we who must measure the loss.

With the wild in their eyes, it is they who must die,

and it's we who must measure the loss.