When the last cry occurs
They know it's time to rest
Sun sets and light fades
And the terror-men put down
Their mighty wicked flails
They return to their great houses
To the feasting halls and beds
And all meanwhile the little muds
Go scattering to the dark
Little muds have little mind
Little soul and little intelligence
So the stories go and say
They can sow and reap and pray
But never think of life their way
For all the while the terror-men
Watch them every day
They're terror-men with terror clubs
Terrible names like 'Kill' and 'Hate'
They are feared and not wanted
By the muds who cower tight
Cower in their little hovels
Come out when it is day
And then they are whipped
And they are worked hard
All day, every day, all the day
