The skies have darkened And the seas have dried. Your honest ways have turned to lies. Your hands of promise Turned to hands of pain. You take for granted the life that God create The life that God created. The frost and flowers Mother gave to you, The muffled whispers bleeding true. And it doesn't matter how What kind of eyes your looking through. Do you see our Mother's dying? Here's a picture for you. I wanna paint this picture for you!
With every black choking for breath And every inch closer to death. Her hands are held out for you.
You said the reasons We're in the cities that we all made Was that we rage our poor Mother. Poor Mother. Poor Mother. Now that she's leaving And she's thrown off all that she gave, We dig the grave Of our poor Mother! The grass ain't growing In my front yard, no. Poor Mother. Poor Mother. Poor Mother.