Jethro Tull

Words get written. words get twisted.
Old meanings move in the drift of time.
Lift the flickering torches. see gentle shadows change
The features of the faces cut in unmoving stone.
Bad mouth on a prayer day, hope no ones listening.
Roots down in the wet clay, branches glistening.
True disciples carrying that message
To colour just a little with their personal touch.
Home-spun fancy weavers and naked half-believers --
Crusades and creeds descend like fiery flakes of snow.