There's a bird, fair and gold, whom my owners do hold
She refuses to make them a sound
How it pains them to think that for me she does sing
While I carry their riches around
I might work in their fields, bear them their meals
I might carry the letters they send
There's a treasure, I know, buried deeply below
That will shatter the shovels of men
There are children of theirs in the bedroom upstairs
I taught them their letters and words
They refuse to be heirs and inherit their share
Of a fortune that they never earned
I might sleep in their fold, do as I'm told
I might shepherd the young that they tend
There's a silence I leave in the spaces between
That will shadow the lessons of them
I might meet on the shores they defend, handle the money they lend
I might shackle the hands they condemn
There's a treasure, I know, buried deeply below
That will shatter the shovels of men
There's a bird, fair and gold, whom my owners do hold
She refuses to make them a sound