How I feel for the poor things Unable to fly or spread their wings Each day with the same view Sad and lonely nothing to do.
To the bird, the world is that room Confined to the cage, that's his tomb For life without freedom is nothing at all No matter whether big or small.
Longing to fly on the breeze Soaring high over the trees Seeing new places everyday Flying and twirling in glorious play.
Never knowing freedom of the bird that fly's Sitting in the cage on his perch 'till he dies, How can a bird that's born for joy Sit in a cage and sing like a stuffed toy.