Dip, dip, dip the fingers into the ink
Press the orchard upon the lips
Let the lithe body run wild
There will be no happy words spoken here

Smile, smile, smile and vacant stare
Put fingers up into a V
Let the young minds atrophy
There will be no violence on the streets

Shy, shy, shy away from corners
Gored fabric and sodden bricks
Let the masters call their dogs
There will be no sabze in the khoresh