Restitution: is that the poor man’s salvation?
Assuming there’s enough to go around
Consternation from our forebears means nothing
Those people ran our country to the ground

Crickets on the porch, cattails in the harbor swinging
Whispers from the north: victory bells in a courtyard ringing

Can I reach you with the language of my father
When my own mother tongue is clearly tied?
Can I touch you? I’m just a ripple in the water
I won’t have left a mark when you are dry

Rich men on TV, bills spread out on the kitchen table
Darling, look at me – you still wink like a young Clark Gablе
Pastures drying out; the bounty of our harvest thinning
Wе can go without; our parents sure knew harder living