A happy family to call....

Ah sun, the glorius sun,
The father of us all.
The mother earth, the human son,
A happy family to call.

But when the child grows up he,
Shall need playthings with which to spoil.
The soil of his mother's apron,
To squeeze her blood into black oil.

And use the rock oil to make,
All things green and blue into brown.
Erode the loving lines of his mother's face,
Yet the smile changes not to a frown.

He shall carry forth in his madness,
And man shall delude himslef high.
Seeking to escape this scene of his crimes,
Yet the years shall rush on by.

Finding no ship to leave this globe,
He shall late realise his folly.
And the Father will weep onto a bare, open grave,
No oak, no pine, no wreath, no holly...