This Earth We Live Is a Garden

A bird wakes up in the morn and flies away To the garden-trees it heads To check fruits that ripened at night That its bone-beak may fruit harvest This earth we live in is a garden. Everyone with a beak A farmland where each one can harvest a thing A politician scampers from bed and drives off To the garden-parliament he heads To check fruits speaker has made overnight That his mouth-beak may joy harvest A soldier skimps from trench on hearing whistle To garden-parade he goes To check what the commander hatched overnight That his gun-beak may anything harvest A poet tiptoes from bedroom with sleep in the eyes To working desk he comes To scribble what he dreamed during the wake-sleep That his brain-beak may frame harvest A priest leaves parish house before dawn and walks To the garden-church he strolls To check what his parishioners have in kind for him That his faith-beak may daily need harvest This earth we live in is a garden. Everyone with a beak A farmland where each one can harvest a thing A Bee buzzes away from its hive at cock crow To garden-flowers it dive To check what the god of love prepared overnight That its tube-beak may juice harvest This earth we live in is a garden. Everyone with a beak A farmland where each one can harvest a thing