SlightlySane
October 5th, 2010, 08:49 PM
The wise old elephant must hold his own tongue
Though his memory won’t fail him, not now,
They will never be forgiven by his young
Through one thousand years
He has held his soft ears.
Higher than the trunk he dears,
For his foes do now know what it is that he fears.
Legends are true of the cat and the mouse,
They’ll never stop running in the old widow’s house,
For she has a broom that has swept up her spouse.
Ashes and ashes her children now chant,
As they fall to the floor like leaves from the plant.
The truth, it is seen, by a psychic she sees,
But the widow must hide what the court asks in plees.
Once a pot of gold in the leprachaun’s cave,
Now sits an old couldren black as the plague,
Only a rainbow stills digs the gold hunters grave.
The luck of the Irish, silly it may seem,
Is not only Irish, but all human beings
They must not share of the knowledge they hold,
At the end of the rainbow, there’s no pot of gold.
Why must father elephant hold his grand tongue?
The cat and the mouse forced to continue their run?
What does the window hide in this fire?
Will all of the human’s hide their secret desire?
Under his ashes lye the elephant’s truth,
Of a memory held secret, our only proof.
But a jurry convinced of a rainbow’s cold lies,
Will still leave the truth, in the elephant’s eyes.
Though his memory won’t fail him, not now,
They will never be forgiven by his young
Through one thousand years
He has held his soft ears.
Higher than the trunk he dears,
For his foes do now know what it is that he fears.
Legends are true of the cat and the mouse,
They’ll never stop running in the old widow’s house,
For she has a broom that has swept up her spouse.
Ashes and ashes her children now chant,
As they fall to the floor like leaves from the plant.
The truth, it is seen, by a psychic she sees,
But the widow must hide what the court asks in plees.
Once a pot of gold in the leprachaun’s cave,
Now sits an old couldren black as the plague,
Only a rainbow stills digs the gold hunters grave.
The luck of the Irish, silly it may seem,
Is not only Irish, but all human beings
They must not share of the knowledge they hold,
At the end of the rainbow, there’s no pot of gold.
Why must father elephant hold his grand tongue?
The cat and the mouse forced to continue their run?
What does the window hide in this fire?
Will all of the human’s hide their secret desire?
Under his ashes lye the elephant’s truth,
Of a memory held secret, our only proof.
But a jurry convinced of a rainbow’s cold lies,
Will still leave the truth, in the elephant’s eyes.