Mothers, sell your children to the church,
Foods hard currency, when the rains no longer come,
and the gods of old seem dead.
Now your praying in the white mans church 'cause the white mans god has bread to spare.

Children, you're the future of your tribe,
Please don't forget the old ways, for the old days will return.
There's more than words to language,
more than heat shared when the camp fires burned.