My blue eyed son's a piece of work you know

He toils for things I'd never buy or hold

A man he is, whose dealings seem to show

The heart he has, shined through his eyes so cold.

My brown eyed son is of the Earth but yet

Are not we all? Yet he, not we knows all.

A man he is, whose wrath burns wood that's wet,

To turn to ash and feed the Earth with gall.

My grey eyed girl is casting up or down.

I know not which, she tells me not, but smiles.

Her motives come from somewhere she must frown.

I'll tell you all I've seen these last few miles.

My Lord said, "Look, I made this world for you."

"To deal and play within. And for Me, you."